Walking Around

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    <strong>Walking Around</strong>

    It so happens I am sick of being a man.

    And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie

    houses

    dried up, roof, like a swan made of felt

    steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

    The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse

    sobs.

    The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

    The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,

    noods, no spectacles, no elevators.

    It so happens that I am siy feet and my nails

    and my hair and my shadow.

    It so happens I am sic<s>..</s>k of being a man.

    Still it would be marvelous

    to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,

    orbbr></abbr> kill a nun with a blow on the ear.

    It would be great

    to gh the streets with a green knife

    letting out yells until I died of the cold.

    I dont want to go on being a root in the dark,

    insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,

    going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,

    taking in and thinkiing every day.

    I dont want so much misery.

    I dont want to go on as a root and a tomb,

    alone uhe ground, a warehouse with corpses,

    half frozen, dying of grief.

    Thats why Monday, when it sees me ing

    with my vict face, blazes up like gasoline,

    and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,

    and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the

    night.

    And it pushes me into certain ers, into some moist

    houses,

    into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

    into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,

    aain streets <bdo>..</bdo>hideous as cracks in the skin.

    There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous iines

    hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,

    and there are false teeth fotten in a coffeepot,

    there are mirrors

    that ought to have wept from shame and terror,

    there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical

    cords.

    I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,

    my rage, f<dfn></dfn>etting everything,

    I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic

    shops,

    and courtyards with washing hanging from the liｐ://?9９ｌiｂ?

    underwear, towels and shirts from which slow

    dirty tears are falling.

    Translated by Robert Bly

    <strong>Pablo Neruda</strong>

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