Borges is ashamed of all death in this poem who knows

Shame on all death.

Borges is free from memory and hope, infinite, abstract, almost belonging to the future.

The dead are not a dead man: that is death.

Like the mystic God, they deny that He has any attributes, and the dead are nothing.

It's just the depravity and absence of the world.

We take everything from it, leaving it not a color, not a syllable, here is the courtyard where its eyes are no longer looking, there is the sidewalk that it wishes to watch.

Even what we think.

Maybe that's exactly what it thinks;

We have carved up like thieves.

Amazing wealth of night and day.

The Poetry of Talent Borges.

Uh, the translated version is different. Let's make do and see...

Poetry of Talent. To Maria Escher Vasquith.

Borges. No one can read tears or blame.

to blink down the power of God.

Declaration, God with his wonderful irony.

Gave me books and nights at the same time.

He let the blind eyes do the work.

The owner of this book city, this can only be clear.

Read in the library of dreams.

Meaningless chapters, they are all made by the dawn.

Give it the desire. Day.

Squandered its infinite curls in vain before your eyes.

They are as difficult as those in Alexandria.

The hard manuscript that was burned.

Because of hunger and thirst (a Greek legend tells of it).

A king dies between a fountain and a garden;

I trek aimlessly in this blindness.

The Library, the tall, deep prison.

Encyclopedia, Atlas, Oriental.

With the doctrine of the West, the century, the dynasties, the symbols, the universe and the origin of the universe.

Provided by the walls, but useless.

In my darkness, the vanity of darkness.

I groped slowly with a hesitant cane, and I, always imagining heaven.

is a type of library.

Something that certainly can't be named.

The word fate, arranges it all;

The other was in another misty night.

I have received countless books and darkness.

Wander through the slow galleries.

It is with a sacred nameless fear that I often feel.

I'm the other one, the one who died, ever.

Walking the same steps on the same day.

Of the two, who wrote the poem.

A plural and I still walk a lonely shadow?

And what is the word that named me?

What if the curse is the same, the same?

Grussack or Borges, I**.

This dear world transforms and extinguishes.

Become a pile of pale, fuzzy ashes.

It's like a dream, or a forgetting.

Uh, the penultimate paragraphs are all yes. The two translations are very different. But after being quoted by Yu Jie, the world first became ugly, and then went out, and it seemed to spread a little wider...

Belch.. My version is translated by Chen Zihong and Chen Dongbiao, I don't know about you, I'm embarrassed to come from another person in another misty night.

Take these books and darkness as your destiny.

The beginning corresponds to:

Long before me, another man in these faded twilight saw these books and darkness as his destiny.

And then all the way to the end. All I can say is that this is the relationship between the translations, and the meaning is consistent.

Inscriptions on All Tombstones

Don't let the reckless marble.

Chatter, risky against the omnipotence of oblivion, reminiscences without play.

Name, reputation, event, place of birth.

So much glass jewelry is best judged by the darkness.

Man is silent, and marble does not need to speak.

The nature of lost life.

Trembling hopes, the relentless miracles of grief and the wonders of materialism—

It will endure forever.

The imperious soul blindly pursues eternal life, and then he is assured in another life, and then you yourself are the ones who have not lived.

A concrete continuation of the people of your time.

And others will be (and are) your earthly immortality.

2, "Death in Buenos Aires" "because of the heart of the South City Cemetery", is too long.

3, "Ricoleta".

So much expensive evidence, dust.

To convince us of death, we slow down and lower our voices.

Walk past a row of slow gravestones.

They shade with the rhetoric of marble.

Promises or foreshadows the much-yearned.

Glory to be the dead.

The pale tomb is beautiful, the barren Latin and the locks of the doomsday, the meeting point of marble and flowers, cool as the open space of the courtyard.

and countless yesterdays of history.

Now it is stagnant, the only one.

We confuse this tranquility with death.

4, "Strange Street".

You go buy a collection of his poems, a lot. Let me recommend it to you: translated by Chen Dongbiao, published by Hainan International Publishing Center, or published by Hebei Education. Zhejiang Literature and Art Publishing House has also published two sets, one of which is a six-volume version, which you can buy and read.