Jorge Luis Borge’s poem on Spinoza
The Jew’s translucent hands
Shape the crystals in the twilight.
And the dying evening is
all fear and chill.
(In the evenings, evenings
are the same).
His hands and the hyacinth’s space
Paling at the purview of the ghetto
Are almost inexistent for the quiet man
Dreaming a dear labyrinth.
Fame does not perturb him, that
Of dreams in another kind of
Nor the girl’s fearful love.
Free of metaphor, free of myth
He shapes a rigid crystal: the
Map of the One that is All
Written by Jorge Luis Borge