To a cat

Mirrors are not given more to silence

nor furtive more the dawn filled with adventure;

you are, underneath the moon, that panther

we are given to espy in distance.

By indescribable workings of a decree

divine, we seek you out in vain;

remoter than the Ganges and the sundown,

the solitude is yours, yours is the secret.

Your back condescends unto the morose

caress of my hand. You have admitted,

from that eternity already quitted,

the love of hands to long mistrust disposed.

You are the master, living in other time,

of an ambit closed as any dream.

Jorge Luis Borges