Soy, tácitos amigos, él que sabe
que no hay otra venganza que el olvido
ni otro perdón
– Jorge Luis Borges
As night weaves its darkness
my eyes brim with distant stars.
In stalking man,
I have become prouder
but no less cunning.
Crouched low all evening,
I prowl past deserted courtyards,
the iron gates of the garden.
I have seen fountains that appear
to multiply as I approach them,
winding through to broken places.
Under the incandescent street lamps,
I have begun to dream of other faces
in a language that I do not speak.
My stripes align with the crosswalks.
I sharpen my claws on pavement.
Prisoner to these nocturnal wanderings,
I brush my whiskers against the sky
that, in time, devours everything.