The streets of Buenos Aires
run through my heart.
Not the greedy streets,
troubled by crowds and bustling drudgery,
but the indolent streets of the outer quarters,
nearly invisible now, as always,
in the half-light of the gloaming,
and those even further out,
beyond the trees,
where only austere little houses dare venture,
overwhelmed by endless distances,
lost in the immense expanse
of sky and plains.
They offer a promise to the loner
for a thousand lonely souls live within them,
unique before the divine and in time
precious beyond question.
To the West, the North and the South
they unfold---another possible homeland---the streets:
may their colors fly
within the verses that I write.
Translated from the Spanish of Jorge Luis Borges.