The Lover (the admirer) – Jorge Borges

December 14, 2015

Moons, ivories, instruments, roses,lamps and the line of Dürer, 

the nine figures and the variable zero,

I shall pretend that these things exist.
I shall pretend that in the past they were

Persepolis and Rome and that fine

sand measured the fate of the crenel

that the centuries of iron undid.


I shall pretend the arms and the pyre

of the epic and the heavy seas

that gnaw from the pillars of the Earth. 
I shall pretend there are others. It’s a lie.

It’s only you. You, my misfortune

and my fortune, inexhaustible and pure.


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