It opens, the gate to the garden 
with the docility of a page 
that frequent devotion questions 
and inside, my gaze 
has no need to fix on objects 
that already exist, exact, in memory. 
I know the customs and souls 
and that dialect of allusions 
that every human gathering goes weaving. 
I’ve no need to speak 
nor claim false privilege; 
they know me well who surround me here, 
know well my afflictions and weakness. 
This is to reach the highest thing, 
that Heaven perhaps will grant us: 
not admiration or victory 
but simply to be accepted 
as part of an undeniable Reality, 
like stones and trees.

-Jorge Luis Borges