Текст песни Jorge Luis Borges - Spinosa

Spinoza

Almost transparent fingers of the Judea,
Grinding lenses in twilight,
And the evening is a terrible, the death of a cold.
(Like this evening and as everyone else.)
But the pallor of the hands and the distance that hyacinth
Insist in the walls of the ghetto -
Long ago does not touch all this
One who dreams a clear labyrinth.
Does not manit fame - this dream is delusional,
Mirroring in the other
And the views of timid girls outlook.
Metaphors and myths despised
He sharpens an endless lens and edge -
The drawing of the one who is their conversion.