Texas, Jorge Luis Borges

Here too. Here, as at the other

edge of the continent, an infinite

field for a dying cry;

here also the indian, the lasso, the colt.

Here the secret bird

that on the rumblings of history

sings for an afternoon of memory;

here the mystic alphabet

of the stars, which today dictate my pen

names that the incessant labyrinth of days
does not arrest: San Jacinto

and that other Thermopylae, the Alamo.

Here also the unknown,

anxious, brief thing, life.

Days, stars

sing that Thermopylae.
Alphabet memory,
history unknown,

San Jacinto
the secret bird sings,
infinite field where
a cry dies alone.

Brief mystic colt,
indian rumblings
in labyrinth space,

edges never arresting a quill.

Texas and life dictating
all continents as Alamo.