It rains
In what yesterday, in what courtyards of Carthage,
falls also this rain?
I always find this very small poem weirdly evocative, particularly when it rains. There's something timeless about it: wherever and whenever it rains, it is the same rain. This sort of empirical Platonism is one of Borges' peculiar threads; off the top of my head,
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But your way sounds nicer.
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