Limits (Excerpt)
Of these streets that deepen the sunset,
There must be one (but which) that I’ve walked
Already one last time, indifferently
And without knowing it, submitting
(...)
At dawn I seem to hear a turbulent
Murmur of multitudes who slip away;
All who have loved me and forgotten;
Space, time and Borges now leaving me.
A Milionga for Manuel Flores (Excerpt)
Manuel Flores is going to die,
That’s ‘on the money’;
Dying is a habit
That’s well-known to many.
Even so it grieves me
To say adiós to being,
That thing so familiar,
So sweet and enduring.
Elegy for a Park (excerpt)
The labyrinth is lost. Lost too
all those lines of eucalyptus,
the summer awnings and the vigil
of the incessant mirror, repeating
the expression of every human face,
everything fleeting. The stopped
clock, the tangled honeysuckle,
the arbour, the frivolous statues,
the other side of evening, the trills,
the mirador and the idle fountain
are things of the past. Of the past?
