Jorge Luis Borges — The Vale of Soul-Making

Two English Poems

I

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
   corner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
   laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
   things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
   of things half given away, half withheld,
   of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
   that way, I tell you.

[…]

Jorge Luis Borges — The Vale of Soul-Making

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