How can it be that my favorite poem resides in a language I dimly understand? Was it context?  I discovered it in the footnotes of a collection of non-fiction by Borges while in Buenos Aires at perhaps my darkest hour. For a Spanish language learner, it is the ideal poem. Simple.  Deceptively simple. It’s an observation…a realization…when something profound appears right before your very eyes and you struggle to express it. The last time I read it was with another Uruguayan,  a poet (of mathematics), Martín.  The memory of this poem is a star that always falls. Here it is: