And what better way to celebrate listening Borges poem in the voice of its author?:
| Where are they? elegy question of who are no longer, as if a region that yesterday could be Today, still, and still. Where are they? (repeat) the Malevaje he founded in dusty lanes of stocks lost ground or in the sect knife and courage? Where are those who passed, leaving the epic one episode, a fable time, and without hatred, profit or passion of love was knifed? The look in his legend, in the second season ember, by way of a vague pink save some of that mob of courageous Los Corrales and Balvanera . What dark alleys or what wilderness of this world will live the hard shadow of that which was a dark shadow, Muraña , that Palermo knife? And that IberRed fatal (whom the saints have mercy ) than in a road bridge, killed his brother, Nato, which was more deaths than he, and thus also the many? A daggers mythology slowly vanishes into oblivion An epic song has been lost between deaf police news. Another grilled hot pink other ash that keeps intact, there are the proud knife and weight of the knife silent. Although hostile or that other dagger dagger time, lost in the mud, today, beyond time and unfortunate death, these dead live in the tango. in music are, in the string of stubborn guitar laborious, hatching in the milonga fortunate the party and the innocence of anger. Tour in the yellow wheel gap of horses and lions, and I hear the echo of those tangos Arolas and Greco I have seen her dancing on the sidewalk, instantly emerge today isolated no before or after, against oblivion, and has the flavor of what was lost, how lost and recovered. chords in there are old things another interview patio and arbor. (Behind the walls suspicious South keeps a knife and a guitar.) This burst, the tango, the mischief, the busy years challenges; made of dust and time, the hard man less than the light melody, which is only time. Tango creates a murky past somehow unreal is true, the memory impossible have died fighting in a corner of the suburb. From: The other, the same |
JORGE LUIS BORGES
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