JORGE LUIS BORGES diecisiete haiku (1981)

March 4, 2011 § Leave a comment


Afternoon. The mountain.

What they told me.

Already it’s gone.


The broad evening.

Nothing more than

a vague fragrance.


The dream that faded

just before dawn.

Was it real or not?


The strings grow still.

Their sound gives way

To my thoughts.


No comfort from

the almonds in the orchard.

They make me think of you.


Dimmer, dimmer.

My books, pictures, even keys.

Just like my future.


Since that one day

I’ve been unable to move

the pieces on the board.


In the desert

dawn presents herself.

Someone will see it.


The indolent sword

rings with its former battles.

My dream is otherwise.


He’s passed on,

but his chin doesn’t realize.

Each hair still growing.


My hand.

At times it brought about

Your horseman’s capture.


Under the balcony

the mirror shows no more

than the moon.


Under the moon

the shadow that reaches out

finds itself alone.


A hint, this light

that extinguishes itself,

or a firefly?


The new moon.

She as well sees

by some other light.


Barely a trill.

The nightengale’s forgotten

how to console you.


My old hand.

The traditional forms

bring it a forgetfulness.



Translated by Chris Gordon

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