borges saves the day.

Feeling blocked, tired, and I get my answers from a genius mama's boy who died when I was seven.

Matthew 25:30
by Jorge Luis Borges

And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness:
there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

The first bridge on Constitución. At my feet
the shunting trains trace iron labyrinths.
Steam hisses up and up into the night
which becomes, at a stroke, the Night of the Last

Judgement.

From the unseen horizon,
and from the very center of my being,
an infinite voice pronounced these things—
things, not words. This is my feeble translation,
time-bound, of what was a single limitless Word:

“Stars, bread, libraries of East and West,
playing cards, chessboards, galleries, skylights,

cellars,

a human body to walk with on the earth,
fingernails, growing at nighttime and in death,
shadows for forgetting, mirrors which endlessly

multiply,

falls in music, gentlest of all times’ shapes,
borders of Brazil, Uruguay, horses and mornings,
a bronze weight, a copy of Grettir Saga,
algebra and fire, the charge at Junín in your blood,
days more crowded than Balzac, scent of the honey-

suckle,

love, and the imminence of love, and intolerable

remembering,

dreams like buried treasure, generous luck,
and memory itself, where a glance can make men

dizzy—

all this was given to you and, with it,
the ancient nourishment of heroes—
treachery, defeat, humiliation.
In vain have oceans been squandered on you, in

vain

the sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman’s eyes.
You have used up the years and they have used up

you,

and still, and still, you have not written the poem.”

(Translated by Alastair Reid)