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.