(written in 1996)
The silent shadows are lazily, yet
draped from the frigid clouds of
November’s endless days.
November-oh! November!-with bitter
sweet days and cold, unforgiving nights.
Forgive me, for not resembling the warm,
glowing pink-brown flesh
of the sunset…
Haunting me endlessly,
I forever haunt
“Wer seiner Zeit nur voraus ist, den hold sie einmal ein.”
If someone is ahead of his time, it will catch him up one day.
“Das Talent ist ein Quell, woraus immer wieder neues Wasser fliebt. Aber diese Quelle wird wertlos, wenn sie nicht in rechter Weise benutzt wird.”
Talent is a spring from which fresh water is constantly flowing. But this spring loses its value if it is not used in the right way.
(written by Jorge Luis Borges; translated from the Spanish, by Alastair Reid)
You are invulnerable. Have they not granted you,
those powers that preordain your destiny,
the certainty of dust? Is not your time
as irreversible as that same river
where Heraclitus, mirrored, saw the symbol
of fleeting life? A marble slab awaits you
which you will not read–on it, already written,
the date, the city, the epitaph.
Other men, too, are only dreams of time,
not indestructible bronze or burnished gold;
the universe is, like you, a Proteus.
Dark, you will enter the darkness that expects you,
doomed to the limits of your travelled time.
Know that in some sense you are already dead.