short film taken from the Italian sit-com " Boris "
Thank God I want
maze of causes and effects
the diversity of creatures
that make up this singular universe,
for reason, that will not cease to dream
some labyrinth design,
for the face of Helen and the perseverance of Ulysses,
for the love that makes us see the other
sees them as the gods ,
diamond and water balance for the dissolved
for algebra, the palace of crystal clear,
for mystic Angelus Silesius coins,
for Schopenhauer,
perhaps decipher ' universe,
for the splendor of fire
that no human being can look
no wonder a former
for mahogany, sandalwood and cedar,
for bread and salt,
for the mystery of the rose
that lavish color and does not see it,
for some sleepless nights and days of 1955,
hard for herders in the plain
incite the animals and sunrise,
for the morning in Montevideo,
for the art of friendship,
for the last day of Socrates,
for the words that were spoken in a twilight
a cross to the other,
for that dream that he embraced Islam
thousand nights and one night,
to that other dream of hell,
the tower of the fire that purifies,
and glorious spheres,
to Swedenborg,
conversing with the angels on the streets of London,
for rivers secrets and immemorial
that converge in me,
centuries ago for the language I spoke in Northumbria,
the sword of the Saxon harp,
for the sea, which is a blazing desert
and a number of things that we do not know,
for verbal music of England,
minutes of music in Germany,
for gold that shines in the poems, the epic
Winter
for the name of a book that I have not read,
to Verlaine, innocent as the birds,
for the prism glass and the weight of brass,
for the tiger stripes ,
for the tall towers of San Francisco and Manhattan,
for the morning in Texas,
for that which drew up the Seville Epistle Morale,
and whose name, as he preferred, ignore it,
for Seneca and Lucan, of Cordova,
that before the English
wrote all the English literature,
for geometric and bizarre Chess,
for Zeno's tortoise and a map of Royce,
for the medicinal smell of the eucalyptus,
for language, which can simulate the wisdom
to oblivion, which cancels or changes the past
for custom,
repeats and confirms that we as a mirror,
for the morning, which gives us the illusion of a principle,
for the night, its darkness and its astronomy,
for the courage and the happiness of others,
for his country, felt jasmine in
or an old sword,
for Whitman and Francis of Assisi who wrote this poem already
,
the fact that this poem is inexhaustible
and merges with the sum Things
and will never last to
and change according to men,
for Frances Haslam, who asked forgiveness for his children died because
so slowly,
for minutes before sleep,
for sleep and death,
those two hidden treasures,
for intimate gifts that do not list
for this music, mysterious form of time.
Jorge Luis Borges
Another poem of the gifts (from the other, the same)
maze of causes and effects
the diversity of creatures
that make up this singular universe,
for reason, that will not cease to dream
some labyrinth design,
for the face of Helen and the perseverance of Ulysses,
for the love that makes us see the other
sees them as the gods ,
diamond and water balance for the dissolved
for algebra, the palace of crystal clear,
for mystic Angelus Silesius coins,
for Schopenhauer,
perhaps decipher ' universe,
for the splendor of fire
that no human being can look
no wonder a former
for mahogany, sandalwood and cedar,
for bread and salt,
for the mystery of the rose
that lavish color and does not see it,
for some sleepless nights and days of 1955,
hard for herders in the plain
incite the animals and sunrise,
for the morning in Montevideo,
for the art of friendship,
for the last day of Socrates,
for the words that were spoken in a twilight
a cross to the other,
for that dream that he embraced Islam
thousand nights and one night,
to that other dream of hell,
the tower of the fire that purifies,
and glorious spheres,
to Swedenborg,
conversing with the angels on the streets of London,
for rivers secrets and immemorial
that converge in me,
centuries ago for the language I spoke in Northumbria,
the sword of the Saxon harp,
for the sea, which is a blazing desert
and a number of things that we do not know,
for verbal music of England,
minutes of music in Germany,
for gold that shines in the poems, the epic
Winter
for the name of a book that I have not read,
to Verlaine, innocent as the birds,
for the prism glass and the weight of brass,
for the tiger stripes ,
for the tall towers of San Francisco and Manhattan,
for the morning in Texas,
for that which drew up the Seville Epistle Morale,
and whose name, as he preferred, ignore it,
for Seneca and Lucan, of Cordova,
that before the English
wrote all the English literature,
for geometric and bizarre Chess,
for Zeno's tortoise and a map of Royce,
for the medicinal smell of the eucalyptus,
for language, which can simulate the wisdom
to oblivion, which cancels or changes the past
for custom,
repeats and confirms that we as a mirror,
for the morning, which gives us the illusion of a principle,
for the night, its darkness and its astronomy,
for the courage and the happiness of others,
for his country, felt jasmine in
or an old sword,
for Whitman and Francis of Assisi who wrote this poem already
,
the fact that this poem is inexhaustible
and merges with the sum Things
and will never last to
and change according to men,
for Frances Haslam, who asked forgiveness for his children died because
so slowly,
for minutes before sleep,
for sleep and death,
those two hidden treasures,
for intimate gifts that do not list
for this music, mysterious form of time.
Jorge Luis Borges
Another poem of the gifts (from the other, the same)
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