A WOLF

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.