I write now as well. Fulfilled the agony
I want to die at all. The vague yellow forms
barely I glimpse, the illusory day,
the atrocious life, the ceaseless nightmare,
the stubborn routine, the expendable history,
are moving away slowly. The established time
is already exhausted. I await at the sunset, that oblivion
holds for me a dream without memory.
Chimeric, secret, spectral way,
its illusory laws invent a destiny
that even dreamed, wants to be mine.
Now is the predetermined deadline. From this confinement
the strong iron door is tired.
Is why I hope. Will stop the waters of my river.
Jorge Luis Borges