A WOLF

by Jorge Luis Borges

October 1992



Grey and furtive     in the final twilight,

he lopes by, leaving his spoor along the bank

of this     nameless river     that has quenched the thirst

of his throat, these waters that repeat no stars.

Tonight,     the wolf     is a shade who runs      alone

and searches for his mate and feels   cold.

He is   the last wolf   in all of Angle-land.