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.