Poem by Jorge Luis Borges:

The garden gate has opened
as gently as a turned page
touched by habitual devotion,
and once you step inside, our gazes
need not fix themselves on objects
already fully formed in memory.
I am familiar with the customs and the spirits,
and with that dialectic of allusions
woven by any gathering of people.
I have no need to speak
nor to claim false privileges;
those who surround me here know me well,
they know my pain and my weakness.
This is to attain the highest thing
that perhaps Heaven may grant us:
not honor or triumphs,
but simply to be accepted
as part of an undeniable Reality,
like the stones and the trees.