by Jorge Luis Borges

Second twilight.
Night that deepens into dream.
Purification, forgetfulness.
First twilight.
Morning that once was dawn.
Day that was morning.
Overflowing day that will be a spent evening.
Second twilight.
Night, the other costume of time.
Purification, forgetfulness.
First twilight. . . .
In the dawn, the secret anguish
of the Ephesian.
What weave is this
of will be, is, and was?
What river
lies under the Ganges?
What river has no source?
What river
drags along mythologies and swords?
Sleeping is useless.
Through the dream, through the desert,
through the cellar,
the river carries me, and I am the river.
I was made of delicate substance, mysterious time.
Perhaps the source is within me.
Perhaps the days emerge,
fatal and illusory,
from my shadow.

—Translated from the Spanish by Thomas Frick