I

The skull itself, the very secret heart,

the ways of blood that I do not behold,

the tunnelings of dream, that Proteus,

the skeleton, the nape, the viscera.

I am these things. Unbelievably

I am too the memory of a sword

and that of one sundown single solitary

that dispersed in gold, in darkness, in void.

I am he who sees the prows from shore;

I am the tabulated books, tabulated

engravings with the lapse of time now fading;

I am he who envies those no more.

Rarer to be the man who intertwines

words within a room of a domicile.

Jorge Luis Borges