Jorge Luis Borges

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

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,
I'll be more relaxed,

Oh days devoted to the useless burdenof putting out of mind the biography of a minor poet of the Southem Hemisphere, to whom the fates or perhaps the stars have givena body which will leave behind no child, and blindness, which is semi-darkness an...

Oh destiny of Borgesto have sailed across the diverse seas of the worldor across that single and solitary sea of diversenames, to have been a part of Edinburgh, of Zurich, of thetwo Cordobas, of Colombia and of Texas, to have returned at the end o...

When sorrow lays us lowfor a second we are savedby humble windfallsof the mindfulness or memory:the taste of a fruit, the taste of water,that face given back to us by a dream,the first jasmine of November,the endless yearning of the compass,a book...

A tiger comes to mind
The twilight
Exalts the vast and busy
And seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom;

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,of Whom anything that could be said must be denied,the dead one, alien everywhere,is but the ruin and absenc...

We are the time
We are the famousmetaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure
We are the water, not the hard diamond,the one that is lost, not the one that stands still
We are the river and we are that greekthat looks himself into the river

Throughout the course of the generationsmen constructed the night
At first she was blindness; thorns raking bare feet,fear of wolves
We shall never know who forged the wordfor the interval of shadow dividing the two twilights;we shall ne...

With lingering love she gazed at the
Colors of dusk
It pleased her
To lose herself in the complex

In these red labyrinths of LondonI find that I have chosenthe strangest of all callings,save that, in its way, any calling is strange
Like the alchemistwho sought the philosopher's stonein quicksilver,
I shall make everyday words—the gam...

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
Without guessing it, the pawn of that