The afternoon has brightened up at last
For rain is falling, sudden and minute.
Falling or fallen. There is no dispute:
Rain is a thing that happens in the past.
Who hears it fall retrieves a time that fled
When an uncanny windfall could disclose
To him a flower by the name of rose
And the perplexing redness of its red.
Falling until it blinds each windowpane,
Within a suburb now long lost this rain
Shall liven black grapes on a vine inside
A certain patio that is no more.
A long-awaited voice through the downpour Is from my father.
He has never died.
For rain is falling, sudden and minute.
Falling or fallen. There is no dispute:
Rain is a thing that happens in the past.
Who hears it fall retrieves a time that fled
When an uncanny windfall could disclose
To him a flower by the name of rose
And the perplexing redness of its red.
Falling until it blinds each windowpane,
Within a suburb now long lost this rain
Shall liven black grapes on a vine inside
A certain patio that is no more.
A long-awaited voice through the downpour Is from my father.
He has never died.
Rain - By Jorge Luis Borges
Δεν υπάρχουν σχόλια:
Δημοσίευση σχολίου