(...)
The lateral nights of the plain
lays in ambush to waylay me. I hear the hoofs
of my own hot death, searching me out,
I longed to be something else, a man of
sentiments, books, judgement,
and now will lie in a swamp under the open sky.
And yet, a secret joy inexplicably
exalts me. I've met my destiny,
my final South American destiny.


/Borges, "Conjectural Poem"