What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets,
desperate sunsets,
the moon of lost 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 fathers father killed,
two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead;
my mothers grandfather
just twenty four- heading
a charged of three hundred men, 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
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.

Jorge Luis Borges

— I accept.