My keychain, lock, spare coins, and cane,
the board on which these cards are spread,
the late reminders that will never get read
in these last few days of mine that remain,
a book inside of which is pressed
some violet, souvenir of a day grown rotten,
undeniable, unforgettable, and yet forgotten,
a ruby mirror facing west
in which burns the fiction of a morning sky.
Things! Windows, files, cups, maps, and staves,
all serving us like implicit slaves,
yet lacking vision and strangely sly.
Beyond our oblivion, these things labor on,
never noticing that we are gone.
Jorge Luis BorgesTranslated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2013