The garden gate has opened
as easily as a page turned,
examined by steady devotion,
and once you enter, our gazes
no longer need to fix themselves on objects
that already exist completely in memory.
I am accustomed to the habits and the spirits
and to that dialectic of allusions
that any gathering of people weaves.
I have no need to speak
nor to claim false privileges;
those who surround me here know me well,
they know well my pain and my weakness.
This is to reach the highest thing
that perhaps Heaven will grant us:
not honor or triumphs,
but simply to be accepted
as part of an undeniable Reality,
like stones and trees.
Poem by Jorge Luis Borges
