I made a free translation of Borges' famous Go poem, turning it into a "blank sonnet." (Line 12 was suggested by an AI after someone noted an issue with the previous version.)

Go

Today, September ninth of seventy-eight,
I held a small disc in my hand, a fraction
of the three hundred sixty-one that make
that other chess, the cosmic game of Go.
It's older than the oldest written word
and the board holds a mirror to the stars.
Its endless permutations, light and dark,
exhaust the thread of our custodian time,
and men can lose themselves in its extension
like others in the day or love's demand.
Today, September ninth of seventy-eight,
I, knowing little, learn I know still less,
and owe my numina this revelation
of a grave labyrinth that won't be mine.