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.