Remorse For Any Death
Free from hope and memory,
limitless, abstract, almost of the future,
the dead man is not a man, but death.
Like the God of the mystics,
of whom all predicates must be denied,
the dead man always stands outside.
He is the loss and absence of this world.
We steal everything from him,
leaving no color or syllable:
Here is the courtyard his eyes no longer see.
There is the sidewalk where his hope used to linger.
Even what we are thinking could belong to him.
We have divvied up, like a band of thieves,
the bounty of his nights and days.
Jorge Luis Borges
Translated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2017
Image by Salvador Dalí