[Jennifer Reeser]

A Compass
To Esther Zemborain de Torres


All things are words in a vernacular
in which each day and night some One or Thing
writes that infinitude of squabbling
that we call history. There, passing, are

Carthage and Rome, and I, you, he, my life
I cannot understand, this agony
of being enigma, chance, cryptography,
all babbling with all of Babel's strife.

The unnamed lies behind the name. I seem
to feel its shadow gravitate today
in this clear keen blue needle, feel it sway,

pulled by an ocean's shoreline, by the deep,
with something of a clock seen in a dream
and something of bird moving in sleep.


Jorge Luis Borges



Una brújula
A compass

A Esther Zemborain de Torres
To Esther Zemborain de Torres



Todas las cosas son palabras del
All things are words of

Idioma en que Alguien o Algo, noche y día,
A language in which Someone or Something, night and day,

Escribe esa infinita algarabía
Writes this infinite of gabble/nonsense/gibberish/racket/clamor

Que es la historia del mundo.En su tropel
That is the history of the world. In its throng/crowd/flock

Pasan Cartago y Roma, yo, tú, él,
Pases Carthage and Rome, I, you, he,

Mi vida que no entiendo, esta agonía
My life that I don't understand, this agony

De ser enigma, azar, criptografía
Of being enigma, random/hazard/chance/fate/disaster, crypography

Y toda la discordia de Babel.
And all the discord of Babel.

Detrás del nombre hay lo que no se nombra;
Behind the name is that which isn't named;

Hoy he sentido gravitar su sombra
Today I have felt gravitate its shadow

En esta aguja azul, lúcida y leve,
In this blue needle, lucid/clear and light/keen/slight

Que hacia el confín de un mar tiende su empeño,
That towards the edge of a sea tends/stretches/distends its endeavor/effort

Con algo de reloj visto en un sueño
With something of clock seen in a dream

Y algo de ave dormida que se mueve.
And something of a bird moving in sleep