Music of Japan. With stinginess,
the water clock doles out its drops
of slow-moving honey or invisible gold
that over time repeat a plot that is
ageless and fragile, mysterious and bold.
I fear each one will become the last.
They are a yesterday returning from some past.
But from what temple or mountain grove?
From what vigil held by an unknown sea?
From what melancholy and its modesty?
From what afternoon, lost and retrieved?
Are they seeking a distant future in me?
I cannot know, and there is no need.
In this music I exist. At least, I want to.
And I bleed.
Jorge Luis Borges
Translated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2015