The afternoon is clear at last,
though a drizzle falls, fine and pure.
Falls or fell. This much is sure:
rain is a thing that happens in the past.
To hear it is to be suddenly led
to a sweeter time when life disclosed
to me a flower I learned to call “rose”
with all its curious shades of red.
This rain that leaves the windows blind
brightens the suburbs time has left behind
and gladdens the black grapes overhead
on a patio that no longer exists.
And through the wet night, there still persists
the voice of my father. He is not dead.
Jorge Luis Borges
Translated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2015
Illustration by Niel Quisaba