A poem about Things

I found this Poem by Jorge Luis Borges in Things 15 Winter 2001 - 2002

Things
My care, my pocket change, this ring of keys,
the obedient lock, the belated notes,
the few days left to me will not find time
to read, the deck of cards, the table top,
a book encrushed in its pages the withered
violet, monument to an afternoon
undoubtedly forgotten, now
forgotten,
The mirror in the west where a red sunrise
blazes its illusion. How many things,
files, doorsills, atlases, nails,
serve us like slaves who never say a word,
blind and so mysterioouslt reserved.
They will endure beyond our vanishing;
and they will never know that we have gone.