Translated from the Spanish of Jorge Luis Borges The skull, the heart well hidden, the courses of the blood I cannot see, that Proteus, the labyrinth of dream, the viscera, the nape, the skeleton. I am all of those. Incredibly I am as well the memory of a blade, of a solitary sun in the west arrayed in falling gold, in violet shades, in nothing. I am the one who sees the prows from port; I am the last few books, the last engravings nullified by time; I am the one who envies the ones who have died. Even stranger to be the man who loops and braids words on a page in a room inside a house. Translated by Terese Coe |
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