ant5

:

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

Tagged: Diecisiete Haiku, Haiku, Jorge Luis Borges, La Cifra, Translations