Ode on reading Borges

O' Sage! O' Borges! Poet of twilight,
Philosopher of twilight, your voice is cold,
As is the memory of snow; warm, as is daylight;
You've brought us sight, and deep dreams of old.

I'd vow adoration, or speak of my illumination,
But words are insufficient, and would fail me;
So allow me relate a picture, a sudden elation,
Which once, unexpected, did appear to me.

I'd closed the covers of labyrinths, when in the sky,
At that moment, among the vast white clouds,
A rift was opened, whence forms unknown to eye
Poured forth, in an unruly and unending crowd.

Some spoke in languages long dead, and others,
Were singing like sirens, in that sweet voice,
That though unheard of, we all recognised as brothers;
And they jeered at me, in signs of strange rejoice.

Then came the images; an exaggerated man
Was chased by a tiger, and then the form of compass,
Which showed time, and all the course it since had ran,
And finally, a gallery of abstractions made of glass.

The colours were many; I could not recognise all,
And so were sounds: screeches and harmonies,
Which brought fear and awe and signs of thrall,
And lingered long after the procession had ceased.

Then the gate was closed; but who could tell,
Whether it had spanned the sky, or some puny site,
Where he had located this heaven and hell,
And which was but magnified by some unknown rite?

I do not know; truthfully, it is of no importance;
I promised elation, but like any feeling of skin,
It has faded, as are the memories of that circumstance,
Only doubt remains, unplacated. I attribute it to him.