The Night of the Gifts

The Night of the Gifts I am speaking so… More and more between the walls. And reflections are swallowing us. More and more we meet faces that resemble another ones. I’m crossing myself. It passed like a ship, sewn of the skin of dead people. The fear stirs up rage or sameness in the eyes. But like a gate that is creaking and half-closing, I am. For the steps of the warriors and the wise men – dust. In Rome I’ll repeat to you poems of Keats (and of all of them) on the water*. The Night of Gifts circles opens. *J. L. Borges