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

   and searches

     for his mate and feels   

  He is

the last wolf

in all of Angle-land.