1. Ars Poetica

    To gaze at the river made of time and water
    And recall that time itself is another river,
    To know we cease to be, just like the river,
    And that our faces pass away, just like the water.

    To feel that waking is another sleep
    That dreams it does not sleep and that death,
    Which our flesh dreads, is that very death
    Of every night, which we call sleep.

    To see in the day or in the year a symbol
    Of mankind’s days and of his years,
    To transform the outrage of the years
    Into a music, a rumor and a symbol,

    To see in death a sleep, and in the sunset
    A sad gold, of such is Poetry
    Immortal and a pauper. For Poetry
    Returns like the dawn and the sunset.

    At times in the afternoons a face
    Looks at us from the depths of a mirror;
    Art must be like that mirror
    That reveals to us this face of ours.

    They tell how Ulysses, glutted with wonders,
    Wept with love to descry his Ithaca
    Humble and green. Art is that Ithaca
    Of green eternity, not of wonders.

    It is also like an endless river
    That passes and remains, a mirror for one same
    Inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
    And another, like an endless river.

    By Jorge Luis Borges
    Translated from the Spanish by Harold Morland

     
    1. solaciolum reblogged this from eating-poetry
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    3. defyexpectations reblogged this from eating-poetry and added:
      I want to find the original spanish version…
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