Wednesday, November 27, 2019


New England, 1967

The forms and colors of my dreams have changed;

now there are red houses side by side

and the fragile bronze of the dying leaves

and the chaste winter and righteous firewood.

As on the seventh day, the earth is good.

Deep in the twilight something carries on

that nearly does not exist, bold and sad,

an old murmur of Bibles and of war.

Soon (they say) the first snow will arrive;

America waits for me on every street,

but I feel in the falling light of afternoon

today so long and yesterday so brief.

Buenos Aires, it is along your streets

I go on walking, not knowing who or when.


Jorge Luis Borges
The Sonnets
translated by Stephen Kessler
Penguin Books