The transmigration of souls brings solace
On these bleak days. The sky began weeping
Before the moment of his death. Rumbling
Discontent spreads, the walls begin to shake.
Now I see my labyrinthine brother,
He smiles at my footsteps; still he is blind.
Once he saw all things that had ever been
In a phase of the moon, and afterward
He could no longer find a woman there.
Jorge, was it a mercy that you died
Before my birth? Were you waiting for me?
Is it peculiar that we share so much,
Or am I to find answers in layers,
Like the hexagons of a library
Where I have spent my life reading one book?
Luis, your work is composed of brilliance:
Clever indirection of common thought,
Solemn touching of myth upon a page;
The manner in which words can tessellate
And change meanings in earlier stories-
Did you predict or prefigure my life?
Borges, my favorite film critic died today-
But always your ghost haunts, and no others.
Is it black magic or an absolute truth
That your face will greet mine in silver mirrors?
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