A compass / Una brújula
by Jorge Luis Borges
All things are really only words
in a tongue of endless gobbledegook
that someone or something is writing in a book
that is the history of the world. In herds,
you, I, everyone, Carthage, Rome travel,
and my unfathomable life too, and this stigma
of having been an accident, a cipher, an enigma,
of being all the unmelodious dialects of Babel.
But behind every name is what has no name.
Today, I felt its shadow flicker and take aim
in the blue compass needle, lucid and light,
that points far away across seas that gleam,
something like a timepiece glimpsed in a dream,
or the stirring of a bird in the middle of the night.
English translation by Paul Weinfield
Todas las cosas son palabras del
idioma en que Alguien o Algo, noche y día,
escribe esa infinita algarabía
que es la historia del mundo. En su tropel
pasan Cartago y Roma, yo, tú, él,
mi vida que no entiendo, esta agonía
de ser enigma, azar, criptografía
y toda la discordia de Babel.
Detrás del nombre hay lo que no se nombra;
hoy he sentido gravitar su sombra
en esta aguja azul, lúcida y leve,
que hacia el confín de un mar tiende su empeño,
con algo de reloj visto en un sueño
y algo de ave dormida que se mueve.
Every single thing becomes a word
in a language that Someone or Something, night and day,
writes down in a never-ending scribble,
which is the history of the world, embracing
Rome, Carthage, you, me, everyone,
my life, which I do not understand, this anguish
of being enigma, accident and puzzle,
and all the discordant languages of Babel.
Behind each name lies that which has no name.
Today I felt its nameless shadow tremble
in the blue clarity of the compass needle,
whose rule extends as far as the far seas,
something like a clock glimpsed in a dream
or a bird that stirs suddenly in its sleep.
English translation by Alastair Reid
