999. The Good Shepherd - Stanley Moss

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Because he would not abandon the flock for a lost sheep

after the others had bedded down for the night,

he turned back, searched the thickets and gullies.

Sleepless, while the flock dozed in the morning mist

he searched the pastures up ahead. Winter nearing,

our wool heavy with brambles, ropes of muddy ice,

he did not abandon the lost sheep, even when the snows came.

Still, I knew there was only a thin line

between the good shepherd and the butcher.

How many lambs had put their heads between the shepherd’s knees,

closed their eyes, offering their neck to the knife?

Familiar – the quick thuds of the club doing its work.

More than once at night I saw the halo coming.

I ran like a deer and hid among rocks,

or I crawled under a bush, my heart in thorns.

During the day I lived my life in clover

watching out for the halo.

I swore on the day the good shepherd catches hold,

trying to wrestle me to the ground and bind my feet,

I will buck like a ram and bite like a wolf,

although I taste the famous blood

I will break loose! I will race under the gates of heaven,

back to the mortal fields, my flock, my stubbled grass and mud.

998. Compass - Jorge Luis Borges

  Translated from the Spanish by Alastair Reed

Every single thing becomes a word

in a language that Someone or Something, night and day,

writes down in a never-ending scribble,

which is the history of the world, embracing

Rome, Carthage, you, me, everyone,

my life, which I do not understand, this anguish

of being enigma, accident, and puzzle,

and all the discordant languages of Babel.

Behind each name lies that which has no name.

Today I felt its nameless shadow tremble

in the blue clarity of the compass needle,

whose rule extends as far as the far seas,

something like a clock glimpsed in a dream

or a bird that stirs suddenly in its sleep.