Rain
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
Out in a lost suburbia this rain
Shall liven black grapes on a vine inside
A certain patio that is no more.
A longed-awaited voice through the downpour
Is from my father. He has never died.
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Préféré par...
Autres oeuvres par Jorge Luis Borges...
