Where San Juan and Chacabuco intersect
I saw the blues houses,
the houses that wear the color of adventure.
They were like banners
and deep as the dawn that frees the outlying quarters.
Some are daybreak color, and some are dawn color:
their cool readiance is a passion before the oblique
face of any drab, discouraged corner.
I think of the women
who will be looking skyward from their burning
dooryards.
I think of the pale arms that make evening glimmer
and of the blackness of braids: I think of the grave
delight
of being mirrored in their deep eyes, like arbors of
night.
I will push the gate of iron entering the dooryard
and there will be a fair girl, already mine, in the room.
And the two of us will hush, trembling like flames,
and the present joy will grow quiet in that passed."/>

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" House of Angels"

Where San Juan and Chacabuco intersect
I saw the blues houses,
the houses that wear the color of adventure.
They were like banners
and deep as the dawn that frees the outlying quarters.
Some are daybreak color, and some are dawn color:
their cool readiance is a passion before the oblique
face of any drab, discouraged corner.
I think of the women
who will be looking skyward from their burning
dooryards.
I think of the pale arms that make evening glimmer
and of the blackness of braids: I think of the grave
delight
of being mirrored in their deep eyes, like arbors of
night.
I will push the gate of iron entering the dooryard
and there will be a fair girl, already mine, in the room.
And the two of us will hush, trembling like flames,
and the present joy will grow quiet in that passed. "

― Jorge Luis Borges , Selected Poems

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Jorge Luis Borges quote : House of Angels
Where San Juan and Chacabuco intersect
I saw the blues houses,
the houses that wear the color of adventure.
They were like banners
and deep as the dawn that frees the outlying quarters.
Some are daybreak color, and some are dawn color:
their cool readiance is a passion before the oblique
face of any drab, discouraged corner.
I think of the women
who will be looking skyward from their burning
dooryards.
I think of the pale arms that make evening glimmer
and of the blackness of braids: I think of the grave
delight
of being mirrored in their deep eyes, like arbors of
night.
I will push the gate of iron entering the dooryard
and there will be a fair girl, already mine, in the room.
And the two of us will hush, trembling like flames,
and the present joy will grow quiet in that passed." style="width:100%;margin:20px 0;"/>
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