If I could live again my life,
In the next - I'll try,
- to make more mistakes,
I won't try to be so perfect,
Through the course of generations
men brought the night into being.
Mirrors are not more silent
nor the creeping dawn more secretive;
in the moonlight, you are that panther
we catch sight of from afar.
Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone
Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream?
Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried,
Almost for consolation, if the bygone period
Oh destiny of Borges
to have sailed across the diverse seas of the world
or across that single and solitary sea of diverse
It opens, the gate to the garden
with the docility of a page
Free of memory and of hope,
limitless, abstract, almost future,
the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.
Like the God of the mystics,
When sorrow lays us low
for a second we are saved
by humble windfalls
of the mindfulness or memory: