This last week there was one clear night, the full moon peeping between the branches of the oak. And here’s Borges’ take on the moon, dedicated to his secretary and later wife (from Paris Review):
. to María Kodama
There is so much loneliness in that gold.
The moon of every night is not the moon
That the first Adam saw.
Of human wakefulness have left it brimming
With ancient tears. Look at it. It is your mirror.
by Jorge Luis Borges
Issue no. 125 (Winter 1992)—translated from the Spanish by Robert Mezey