The Rain Jorge Luis Borges
The afternoon grows light because at last Abruptly a minutely shredded rain Is falling, or it fell. For once again Rain is something happening in the past.
Whoever hears it fall has brought to mind Time when by a sudden lucky chance A flower called "rose" was open to his glance And the curious color of the colored kind.
This rain that blinds the windows with its mists Will gladden in suburbs no more to be found The black grapes on a vine there overhead
In a certain patio that no longer exists. And the drenched afternoon brings back the sound How longed for, of my father's voice, not dead. |