“I live in a grey world, rather like the silver screen world. But yellow stands out.”

I remember him (I have no right to utter this sacred verb, only one man on earth had that right and he is dead) with a dark passion flower in his hand, seeing it as no one has ever seen it, though he might look at it from the twilight of dawn till that of evening, a whole lifetime.

to Antonio M. Cubero

The flags sang their colors
            and the wind is a bamboo shoot between the hands
The world grows like a bright tree
                                                Tipsy as a propeller

I have forgotten my name. I am not Borges
(Borges died at La Verde, under fire)
Nor am I Acevedo, dreaming of battle,

Thousands upon thousands of grains of sand,
Rivers that know no rest, the sparkling white
Snowflake more delicate than a shadow, light

The story is always the same story,
With every step retraced;
They tell the story in Buenos Aires

I might have been a martyr. Instead I was
A scourge of martyrs, trying souls in fire.
To save my own soul, I tried tears and prayer,

There is so much lonliness in that gold.
The moon of every night is not the moon
That the first Adam saw.