Mirrors are no more silent
nor more furtive the adventurous dawn;
you are, under the moon, that panther
that we are given to see from afar.
By indecipherable work of a decree
divine, we seek you in vain;
more remote than the Ganges and the west,
yours is the loneliness, yours the secret.
Your back condescends to the defaulter
caress my hand. You have admitted,
from that eternity that is already oblivion,
the love of the suspicious hand.
In another time you are. You are the owner
of a closed environment like a dream.
Jorge Luis Borges
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