main | Vacant room | Dawning | Butcher shop | Simplicity | Farewell | Dulcia Linquimus Arva | Last sun in Villa Ortúzar | Mythical founding of Buenos Aires | Deathwatch on the Southside | Buenos Aires Deaths | Chess | Quatrain | Cyclical Night | A thirteenth-century poet | Susana Soca | Camden, 1892 | A Northside knife | Milonga of Albornoz | New England, 1967 | The labyrinth | Invocation to Joyce | Tankas | Susana Bombal | Things | Menaced | You | Poem of quantity | The sentinel | To the German language | 1891 | Hengist asks for men, A.D. 449 | Browning poet resolves to be | Suicide | I am | Fifteen coins | Blind man | 1972 | Elegy | The exile (1977) | In memory of Angelica | My books | Talismans | The white deer | The profound rose | Mexico | Herman Melville | To Johannes Brahms | Baruch Spinoza | Alhambra | Music box | Adam is your ashes | On acquiring an encyclopedia | Nostalgia for the present | The accomplice | Shinto | The cipher | My last tiger | The cypress leaves | The weft
Three ancient faces wake
Ocean, who spoke with Claudius,
the North of ignorant
atrocious steel morning and night,
and Death, that other name
of incessant time that bites us.
The secular weight of that yore
history whether dreamed or not
kills me personally like guilt.
I think of proud ships returning
to sea the corpse of Scyld Sceaving
who ruled Denmark below the sky;
I think of that tall wolf, with reins
like serpents, who gave the burning bark
whiteness of a dead handsome god;
I think of pirates whose human flesh
is scattered in slime under heavy
seas their adventure;
I think of tombs navigators
saw on boreal Odysseys.
I think of my own, perfect dying,
without urn or tear.