Free of memory and of hope,
limitless, abstract, almost future,
the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.
Like the God of the mystics,
of Whom anything that could be said must be denied,
the dead one, alien everywhere,
is but the ruin and absence of the world.
We rob him of everything,
we leave him not so much as a color or syllable:
here, the courtyard which his eyes no longer see,
there, the sidewalk where his hope lay in wait.
Even what we are thinking,
he could be thinking;
we have divvied up like thieves
the booty of nights and days.
| Best Poems | Short Poems
Email Poem |
Top Jorge Luis Borges Poems
Analysis and Comments on Remorse For Any Death
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Remorse For Any Death here.
Commenting has been disabled for now.