Jorge Luis Borges -Milonga de Albornoz-

Milonga de Albornoz

Alguien ya contó los días.
Alguien ya sabe la hora.
Alguien para Quien no hay
ni premuras ni demora.

Albornoz pasa silbando
una milonga entrerriana;
bajo el ala del chambergo
sus ojos ven la mañana.

La mañana de este día
del ochocientos noventa;
en el bajo del Retiro
ya le han perdido la cuenta

de amores y de trucadas
hasta el alba y de entreveros
a fierro con los sargentos,
con propios y forasteros.

Se la tienen bien jurada
más de un taura y más de un pillo;
en una esquina del sur
lo está esperando un cuchillo.

No un cuchillo sino tres
antes de clarear el día,
se le vinieron encima
y el hombre se defendía.

Un acero entró en el pecho,
ni se le movió la cara;
Alejo Albornoz murió
como si no le importara.

Pienso que le gustaría
saber que hoy anda su historia
en una milonga. El tiempo
es olvido y es memoria.


Milonga of Albornoz

Someone already counted the days,
Someone already knows the hour,
Someone with Whom there are
Neither premotions nor demur.

Albornoz walks by whistling
An Entre Ríos milonga;
Under the brim of his chambergo
His eyes see the morning,

The morning of this day
Of eighteen-hundred ninety;
Down in the Retiro
They've already stopped counting

Loves and cardgames
Till dawn and tangles
Of iron with sergeants,
Kith and strangers.

Well-sworn amongst them are
More than one tough and more than one rogue;
At a streetcorner on the Southside
A knife is waiting for him.

Not one knife but three,
Before day's lightening,
They were all on top of him
And the man was himself defending.

Somebody's steel entered his chest,
Nor did his face once move;
Alejo Albornoz died
As if it was nothing at all to him.

I think that he would like
To know presently his story
Continues in a milonga. Time
Is oblivion and memory.

Translated by Christopher Mulrooney