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The Lost Garden December 16, 2011

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Poetry, The Narrative, Toulouse Street.
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When in doubt and the words run out: poetry. It’s been that kind of a weird week anyway, somewhere between Borges and Cortazar, while trying to finish Murakami’s 1Q84, which is a way to say through a looking glass darkly.

Adam Cast Forth
By Jorge Luis Borges

Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream?
Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried,
Almost for consolation, if the bygone period
Over which this Adam, wretched now, once reigned supreme,

Might not have been just a magical illusion
Of that God I dreamed. Already it’s imprecise
In my memory, the clear Paradise,
But I know it exists, in flower and profusion,

Although not for me. My punishment for life
Is the stubborn earth with the incestuous strife
Of Cains and Abels and their brood; I await no pardon.

Yet, it’s much to have loved, to have known true joy,
To have had — if only for just one day —
The experience of touching the living Garden.

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