DuduluStacy🌙

——Jorges Luis Borges
　　
  
       I offer you lean streets,
　　
　　desperate sunsets,
　　
　　the moon of the jagged suburbs.
　　
　　I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
　　
　　I offer you my ancestors, my dead men,
　　
　　the ghosts that living men have honoured in marble:
　　
　　my father's father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires,

　　two bullets through his lungs,
　　
　　bearded and dead,
　　
　　wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow;
　　
　　my mother's grandfather
　　
　　-just twenty four-
　　
　　heading a charge of three hundred men in Peru,
　　
　　now ghosts on vanished horses.
　　
　　I offer you whatever insight my books may hold.
　　
　　whatever manliness or humour my life.
　　
　　I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
　　
　　I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved somehow -the central heart
　　
　　that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams,
　　
　　and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
　　
　　I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.
　　
　　I offer you explanations of yourself,
　　
　　theories about yourself,
　　
　　authentic and surprising news of yourself.
　　
　　I can give you my loneliness,
　　
　　my darkness,
　　
　　the hunger of my heart;
　　
　　I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.