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
Last sun in Villa Ortúzar
Evening like a Last
The street is an open wound in the sky.
Was it an Angel or a sundown that bright burning far?
Insistent, like a nightmare, distance weighs upon me.
A wire fence torments the horizon.
The world is something useless thrown away.
The sky has day, but night is treacherous in ditches.
All the light is in these blue walls and that girls' uproar.
Is it a tree or a god, sticking out the rusty gate?
Many lands at once: fields, sky, suburbs.
Today was rich in streets, sharp sundown and evening made
Far off, I return to my poverty.