A Woman Nursing a Child, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir
Jorge Luis Borges

In Memory of Angelica

How many possible lives will have left
in this poor and tiny death,
how many possible lives that fortune
would give memory or oblivion!
When I die a past shall die;
with this flower a still-to-come has died
in waters that knew her not, an open
still-to-come razed by the stars.
I, like her, die of infinite
destinies that hazard doesn't supply;
my shadow seeks out the wearied myths
of a country that always made excuses.
A bit of marble tends her memory;
over us grows, atrocious, history.
 
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney
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