Tall in the evening, arrogant, aloof,
she crosses the chaste garden and is caught
in the shutter of that pure and fleeting instant
which gives to us this garden and this vision,
unspeaking, deep. I see her here and now,
but simultaneously I also see her
haunting an ancient, twilit Ur of the Chaldees
or coming slowly down the shallow steps,
a temple, which was once proud stone but now
has turned to an infinity of dust,
or winkling out the magic alphabet
locked in the stars of other latitudes,
or breathing in a rose’s scent, in England.
She is where music is, and in the gentle
blue of the sky, in Greek hexameters,
and in our solitudes, which seek her out.
She is mirrored in the water of the fountain,
in time’s memorial marble, in a sword,
in the serene air of a patio,
looking out on sunsets and on gardens.
And underneath the myths and the masks,
her soul, always alone.
Alastair Reid, translator.
Related: scroll down for a picture of Susana on her wedding day.
Tags: Jorge Luis Borges, Susana Bombal