an endless sum

of Borges

by Roberto Lavidez

if there is

no beginning

no ending

and if what

awaits us

is an endless

sum of

white days

and black 

nights

we are 

already

the past

we become

then my

life is

a flight

and I will

lose all

and all

will belong

to oblivion

or to that

other

we live

discovering

and forgetting

that sweet

familiarity

of the night

the ancient

name of

a street

the colourations

of a map

an unforeseen

etymology

a book

a dream

reveals that

they are

forms in

a dream

once dreamt

in Brittany

the moon

of these

nights

is not

the moon

the first

Adam saw

let the

glaciers of

oblivion

take and

engulf me

mercilessly

the reddened

mirror 

facing to 

the west

where burns

illusory dawn

fate

permits me

the gift

of choosing

for once

that silent

flower

where will

the rose

in your hand

exist that

lavishes

without

knowing

intimate gifts

the slowly

leaves

recall a child

who gravely

dreams

vague things

he cannot

understand

at dawn

I seem

to hear

a turbulent

murmur of

multitudes

who slip away

tonight

the moon

bright circle

fails to

dominate

space

I know

the customs

and souls

and that

dialect

of allusions

that every

human

gathering

goes weaving

at dawn

I gaze

at my hands

in my hands

the veins

there

in the

twilight

there persists

what’s almost

non-existent

bold

sad

an ancient

murmur

of bibles

war

I’ll erase the

accumulated

past

I’ll make

dust of

history

dust of dust

the afternoon

you gaze on

prove your

last

I think

of things

that weren’t

but might

have been

assiduously

I plot

these lines

in twilight

emptiness

a man

who as

Voltaire

wished

cultivate

his garden

©robertolavidez2014