my cane, my pocket change, this ring of keys.
the obedient lock, the belated notes
the few days left to me will not find time
to read, the deck of cards, the tabletop,
a book and crushed in its pages the withered
violet, monument to an afternoon
undoubtedly unforgettable, now forgotten,
the mirror in the west where a red sunrise
blazes its illusion. How many things,
files, doorsills, atlases, wine glasses, nails,
serve us like slaves who never say a word,
blind and so mysteriously reserved.
they will endure beyond our vanishing;
and they will never know that we have gone.
— “things” by jorge luis borges, as translated by stephen kessler
