Milonga de Albornoz
Jorge Luis Borges
Albornoz's Milonga
Someone has already counted the days.
Someone already knows the time.
Someone for whom there are
neither rush nor delay.
Albornoz walks by whistling
an Entrerrian milonga;
under the brim of his hat
his eyes see the morning.
The morning of this day
of eighteen ninety;
in the Retiro neighborhood
they have already lost count
of loves and card games
until dawn and of skirmishes
with the sergeants,
with locals and strangers.
More than one tough guy and more than one crook
have it in for him;
in a corner in the south
a knife is waiting for him.
Not one knife but three
before daybreak,
they came at him
and the man defended himself.
A blade entered his chest,
he didn't flinch;
Alejo Albornoz died
as if he didn't care.
I think he would like
to know that today his story
is in a milonga. Time
is forgetfulness and memory.
