Free of memory and of hope, <br />limitless, abstract, almost future, <br />the dead man is not a dead man: he is death. <br />Like the God of the mystics, <br />of Whom anything that could be said must be denied, <br />the dead one, alien everywhere, <br />is but the ruin and absence of the world. <br />We rob him of everything, <br />we leave him not so much as a color or syllable: <br />here, the courtyard which his eyes no longer see, <br />there, the sidewalk where his hope lay in wait. <br />Even what we are thinking, <br />he could be thinking; <br /> <br />we have divvied up like thieves <br />the booty of nights and days.<br /><br />Jorge Luis Borges<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/remorse-for-any-death/
