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Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf

At various times, I have asked myself what reasons 

moved me to study, while my night came down, 

without particular hope of satisfaction, 

the language of the blunt-tongued Anglo-Saxons. 

Used up by the years, my memory

loses its grip on words that I have vainly 

repeated and repeated. My life in the same way

weaves and unweaves its weary history. 

Then I tell myself: it must be that the soul

has some secret, sufficient way of knowing 

that it is immortal, that its vast, encompassing

circle can take in all, can accomplish all. 

Beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing,

the universe waits, inexhaustible, inviting. 

-Jorge Luis Borges

 I feel compelled to say, that maybe it's not the universe, but it's God.