Saturday, March 08, 2008


Jorge Luis Borges

A man who cultivates his garden, as Voltaire wished.
He who is grateful for the existence of music.
He who takes pleasure in tracing an etymology.
Two workmen playing, in a cafe in the South, a silent game of chess.
The potter, contemplating a color and a form.
The typographer who sets this page well, though it may not please him.
A woman and a man, who read the last tercets of a certain canto.
He who strokes a sleeping animal.
He who justifies, or wishes to, a wrong done him.
He who is grateful for the existence of Stevenson.
He who prefers others to be right.
These people, unaware, are saving the world.


Princess Haiku said...

This is uplifting and just what I needed as I am often tristesse in the evening.

Wings of past loves and memories awaken in the quiet hours past midnight and beyond where the ones we will yet love and lose wait their turn.

Raw Food Diva said...

Love that poem.
Just growing a beautiful garden qualifies.
sow the seeds of peace!