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.