Limits from Borges, my favorite writer ever!

Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.

Death = Live

Until i have no more blood to bleed,
empty totally empty i wish i could get
i want to lose and forget my shadow, have it never again
take off this dry old, destroyed and shameful skin,
burn my soul, burn it many times and burn it again
leave me in darkness,
leave me;
take away my ground then break my legs and all my bones
disappear me, leave no evidence of who or what i´m
i cant be this x-self anymore, please i cant,
i cant be this un-spelling being any longer
i want you to kill me because i want to live,
let me live, im crying out for your mercy,
i dont want to change anymore, it doesn't work...
but now here i am, ready to obey what you want me to do
i want to die to myself so i can be alive in you.

Romans 6:5-11
Christ died, and we have been joined with him by dying too. So we will also be joined with him by rising from the dead as he did.We know that our old life died with Christ on the cross so that our sinful selves would have no power over us and we would not be slaves to sin. Anyone who has died is made free from sin's control.
If we died with Christ, we know we will also live with him. Christ was raised from the dead, and we know that he cannot die again. Death has no power over him now. Yes, when Christ died, he died to defeat the power of sin one time—enough for all time. He now has a new life, and his new life is with God. In the same way, you should see yourselves as being dead to the power of sin and alive with God through Christ Jesus.

I saw water running free on the streets
with joy flowing down, taking away the dryness
embracing the moment but lasting forever.
I was so amazed by the running water
but you were not there...
so my tears noticed, all this...is it already lost?
Did u know the waters were running, the happy streets were fresh...
ready for harvest and sunshine, ready for you without doubts
Water is gone but im now captured by dreams
while you whisper unknown formulas im still hearing
while you walk away im still seeing your heart
while you hit stones against the mountains
I´ll be preparing you tea
then i will call out your name; again.
Will you then recognize that my call belongs to you?

From my old lines...

What can I hold you with?

I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of ragged
suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a girl who has looked long and long
at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead girl, the ghosts that living girl
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 charged of three hundred men in Peru, now
ghosts on vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever detail
or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a girl who has tried 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 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, without defeat.