Rain By Jorge Luis Borges

The afternoon has brightened suddenly

Because it already rains minutely

Falling or fallen. Rain is one thing

Which undoubtedly happens only in the past.

Who hears it fall retrieves a recovered

Time that a venturesome luck

Revealed to him a flower by the name of rose

And the curious color of red.

This rain that clouds the windows

Will gladden in those lost suburbs

The black grapes of a vine in certain

Patio that is no more. The sodden

Afternoon brings me a much wanted voice, the desired voice,

Of my father who returns and who has not died.