Afterglow
by Jorges Luis Borges tr. Paul Weinfield
The sunset is always moving no matter how poor or flashy it is, but still more moving is the last, desperate glow that turns the distant plains to rust when the sun has finally sunk. It hurts us to be with that strange, tense light, that hallucination imposing itself upon space, with our shared fear of shadows and what suddenly ceases when we see our error, as a dream sometimes ceases when we see we are dreaming.












