Κυριακή 20 Ιανουαρίου 2019

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TWO ENGLISH POEMS II

by Jorge Luis Borges


What can I hold you with? 
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the 
moon of the jagged suburbs. 
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked 
long and long at the lonely moon. 
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts 
that living men have honoured in bronze: 
my father’s father killed in the frontier of 
Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, 
bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in 
the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather 
–just twentyfour–heading a charge of 
three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on 
vanished horses. 
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, 
whatever manliness or humour my life. 
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never 
been loyal. 
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, 
somehow–the central heart that deals not 
in words, traffics not with dreams, and is 
untouched by time, by joy, by adversities. 
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at 
sunset, years before you were born. 
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about 
yourself, authentic and surprising news of 
yourself. 
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the 
hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you 

with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

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