One more: A poet of the thirteenth century He looks over the laborious drafts of that first sonnet (still to be so called), the random scribbles cluttering the page - terzains, quatrains promscuously scrawled. Slowly he smoothes down angularities, then stops. Has some faint music reached his sense, notes of far-off nightingales relayed out of some awesome future age hence? Has he realiszed that he is not alone and that Apollo, unbelievably arcane, has made an archetype within him sing - one crystal-clear and eager to absorb whatever night conceals or day unveils: labyrinths, mazes, enigmas, Oedipus King? [FONT="]Jorge Luis Borges [/FONT](Translation by Alan S. Trueblood; I replaced triads in the fourth line with the more obvious terzains.) Borges, like Kavafis, often plays with (quasi-)historical themes, like he does here with an unnamed 13th century poet, referring in passing to the not yet existant sonnet - exactly the form he uses for this poem's structure.