miércoles, 15 de junio de 2011

I'm trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat


What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the
      moon of the jagged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked
     long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts
     that living men have honoured in bronze:
     my father's father killed in the frontier of
     Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
     bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldier in
     the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather
     -just twentyfour- heading a charge of
     three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on
     vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold,
     whatever manliness or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,
     somehow -the central heart that deals not
     in words, traffics not with dreams and is
     untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at
     sunset , years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about
     yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the
     hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you
     with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
Jorge Luis Borges, 1934.

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