You shall not be saved by what was left
written by those your fear implores;
you are not the others and now you are
the center of the labyrinth your steps
have weaved. You are not saved by the agony
of Christ or Socrates, nor by the strong
golden Siddhartha who accepted death
in a garden, as the day was growing thin.
Dust is also the word that was written
by your hand, or the words pronounced
by your mouth. There is no pity in Fate
and the night of God is infinite.
Your substance is time, incessant
time. You are each solitary instant.
—Jorge Luis Borges
