I'm preparing a talk for church tomorrow. I'm really missing readily accessible printers at the moment. Like, really.
Anyway, I'm using one of Jorge Luis Borges' poems as the antithesis to my talk, and I feel bad because Borges actually wrote a lot of great, uplifting poems--i.e. his poem about Iceland entitled Iceland,that begins with the lines Iceland of the seas/how lucky all men are that you exist--rather than the super pessimistic/despairingly agnostic poem I'm quoting tomorrow. So, to compensate here is Borges' poem The Just.
The Just
A man who cultivates his garden, as Voltaire wished.
He who is grateful for the existence of music.
He who takes pleasure in tracing an etymology.
Two workmen playing, in a cafe in the South, a silent game of chess.
The potter, contemplating a color and a form.
The typographer who sets this page well, thought it may not please him.
A woman and a man, who read the last tercets of a certain canto.
He who strokes a sleeping animal.
He who justifies, or wishes to, a wrong done him.
He who is grateful for the existence of Stevenson.
He who prefers others to be right.
These people, unaware, are saving the world.
Los justos
Un hombre que cultiva su jardin, como queria Voltaire.
El que agradece que en la tierra haya musica.
El que descurbre con placer una etimologia.
Dos empleados que en un cage del Sur jegan un silencioso ajedrez.
El ceramista que premedita un color y una forma.
El tipografo que compone bien esta pagina, que tal vez no le agrada.
Una mujer y un hombre que leen los tercetos finales de cierto canto.
El que acaricia a un animal dormido.
El que justifica o quiere justificar un mal que le han hecho.
El que agradece que en la tierra haya Stevenson.
El que prefiere que los otros tengan razon.
Esas personas, que se ignoran, estan salvando el mundo.
Also, Honduras is pretty.
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