the sea

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Before our human dream (or terror) wove
Mythologies, cosmogonies, and love,
Before time coined its substance into days,
The sea, the always sea, existed: was.

Who is the sea? Who is that violent being,
Violent and ancient, who gnaws the foundations
Of earth? He is both one and many oceans;
He is abyss and splendor, chance and wind. 

Who looks on the sea, sees it the first time,

Every time, with the wonder distilled
From elementary things—from beautiful
Evenings, the moon, the leap of a bonfire.

Who is the sea, and who am I? The day
That follows my last agony shall say.


—Jorge Luis Borges
Alastair Reid version

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the sea

 

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Before our dreams (or terrors) persisted
in mythology and cosmogony,
even before time coined itself in days, there existed,
already, the sea. It was. 

There was always the sea.
But who is the sea? Who is that old, undisciplined,
violent creature, who’s gnawing away under
the pillars of the earth, who’s also chance and wind,
one and many oceans, and abyss and wonder? 

Staring upon the sea, we see it as though
for the first time, sensing the splendor of all free
and elemental things: like afternoons, the glow
of the moon, or a blazing fire. But who is the sea?
And who am I? In time, when my days are passed,
and my final agony’s done, I’ll know, at last.
 

—Jorge Luis Borges

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