The Simurgh

The distant king of birds, the Simurgh, drops one of his splendid feathers somewhere in the middle of China; on learning of this, the other birds, tired of their present anarchy, decide to seek him. They know that the king's name means "thirty birds"; they know that his castle lies in the Kaf, the mountain or range of mountains that ring the earth. At the outset, some of the birds lose heart; the nightingale pleads his love for the rose; the parrot pleads his beauty, for which he lives caged; the partridge cannot do without his home in the hills, nor the heron without his marsh, nor the owl without his ruins. But finally, certain of them set out on the perilous venture; they cross seven valleys or seas, the next to last bearing the name Bewilderment, the last the name Annihilation. Many of the pilgrims desert; the journey takes its toll among the rest. Thirty, made pure by their sufferings, reach the great peak of the Simurgh. At last they behold him; they realize that they are the Simurgh, and that the Simurgh is each of them and all of them.
This excerpt is taken, verbatim, from Borges' The Book of Imaginary Beings.
A being that is not one being, but many beings at once, is among the most intriguing inventions in literature. Also the word Behemoth is plural: it is a Hebrew word that stands for "beasts". Nazgûl, the nine riders from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, are lost to humanity not because they slavishly serve Sauron, but because they are a single creature consisting of what used to be nine.
The posted photograph is one of startling formations of starlings: to follow the flocking birds in their artistic spree, begin here.

A Bao A Qu

In the Book of Imaginary Beings (1967), Jorge Luis Borges retold a Malay tale about the staircase leading to the terrace of a tower in Chitor:
On the stairway of the Tower of Victory there has lived since the beginning of time a being sensitive to the many shades of the human soul and known as the A Bao A Qu. It lies dormant for the most part on the first step, until at the approach of a person some secret life is touched off in it, and deep within the creature an inner light begins to glow. At the same time, its body and almost translucent skin begin to stir. But only when someone starts up the spiralling stairs, is the A Bao A Qu brought to consciousness, and then it sticks close to the visitor's heels, keeping to the outside of the turning steps, where they are most worn by the generations of pilgrims. At each level the creature's colour becomes more intense, its shape approaches perfection, and the bluish form it gives off is more brilliant. But it achieves its ultimate form only at the topmost step, when the climber is a person who has attained Nirvana and whose acts cast no shadows. Otherwise, the A Bao A Qu hangs back before reaching the top, as if paralysed, its body incomplete, its blue growing paler, and its glow hesitant. The creature suffers when it cannot come to completion, and its moan is a barely audible sound, something like the rustling of silk. Its span of life is brief, since as soon as the traveller climbs down, the A Bao A Qu wheels and tumbles to the first steps, where, worn out and almost shapeless it waits for the next visitor. People say that its tentacles are visible only when it reaches the middle of the staircase. It is also said that it can see with its whole body and that to the touch it is like a skin of a peach.
In the course of centuries, the A Bao A Qu has reached the terrace only once.

Tango: a sad thought that is danced

Tango summons a place and a time lost to us. It is a musical narrative of days long gone when tango belonged to compadritos, dark streets and whorehouses. Borges recounts in his History of the Tango (1955) how tango began in brothels as a dance of brave men, outlaws and thugs, who gamble on their lives and make bets with their knives.
You are listening to El Tango by Borges and Piazzolla. The complete poem, in Spanish, can be found here. I could, for the time being, only find the English translation of a part of the poem:

„Where could they be?“ asks the elegy
of those who have disappeared, as if there were
a zone in which Yesterday could be
Today, Still, and Yet.

Where, I repeat, is that underworld
that was created, in dusty dirt alleyways
or in lost villages,
by those who lived with knives and courage?

They are in the music, in the persistent
strumming of the guitar,
that narrates, through a gay milonga,
the innocent festival of courage.

That outburst, the tango, that devilry,
defies the busy years;
made of dust and time, men do not endure
as long as the light tune
that is simply time. The tango creates
a shady, unreal past that in some way is true,
an impossible memory of having died
fighting, on a corner in the slums.

It is this tango of knives and brothels that Borges longed for. This is also the tango imagined in his short story, Man on Pink Corner:
"... milonga ran like grass fire from one end of the room to the other. Francisco Real danced straight-faced, but without any daylight between him and her."

Tango poems

This is Milonga para Jacinto Chiclana, taken from El Tango (1965), an album of tangos, milongas and musical poems by Jorge Luis Borges (lyrics) and Astor Piazzolla (music).
The poem of the posted piece, in English translation, can be found here.
Tango is a fusion of habanera, milonga, condombe and every other musical style known to man in late nineteenth-century Buenos Aires. Once tango came to be, it returned to every culture, as a dance of eros, as a dance of tanatos, as a dance of brothels, as a dance of grieving husbands, as a dance of elements, as an elemental dance.
"Tango," wrote Borges, "encloses, as does all that which is truthful, a secret."