from the Poems of the Night
St. John's Eve
The setting sun, with implacable splendor,
parted the distances on its blade.
And night is here, tender as a willow.
Whorls of brusque bonfires
Splutter into red:
wood offered in sacrifice
bleeds into the high flames:
living flag, blind mischief.
The darkness is as gentle as someplace far away.
Today the streets remember
that they were fields one day.
And through the holy night,
Solitude says its rosary of far flung stars.
-Jorge Luis Borges
Translation by Christopher Maurer