by Jorge Luis Borges
In which United, in what century, under that the silent
the conjunction of the stars, what day secret
that did not save marble, the valente
and singular idea of inventing the happiness?
Golden autumn with the invented. The wine
Red flows through the generations
as the river of time and arduous journey
We hope his music, his fire, his lions.
On the night of jubilation or adverse day
enhances the joy or mitigates the terror
and the new dithyrambic poem that on this day the hand
he sang once Persian and Arabic.
Wine, show me the art of seeing my own story
as if this were already ashes in memory.