Jorge Luis Borges

REMUŞCARE PENTRU ORICE MOARTE

Desprins de memorie şi de speranţă,
nelimitat, abstract, aproape viitor,
mortul nu e un mort : este moartea.
Precum Dumnezeul misticilor,
căruia trebuie să i se refuze toate predicatele,
mortul pretutindeni străin
nu este decît pierzania şi absenţa lumii.
Îi răpim totul,
nu-i lăsăm nici o culoare, nici o silabă : 
aici e curtea pe care ochii lui n-o mai văd,
acolo e trotuarul pe care speranţa lui a stat la pîndă.
Pînă şi ce gîndim ar putea gîndi şi el ;
ne-am împărţit ca hoţii
averea nopţilor şi zilelor.


REMORSE FOR ANY DEATH

Detached from the memory and hope,
boundless, abstract, almost future,
the dead isn't a dead : he is the death.
Like the God of the mystics
to whom we have to deny all his predicates,
the dead everywhere a stranger
isn't but the loss and the absence of the world.
We ravish everything from him,
we leave no color, no syllable to him :
here is the yard that his eyes see nomore,
there is the sidewalk on which his hope lied on the watch.
Even what we think he could think too ;
we have shared like thieves
the treasure of  nights and  days.