名人诗歌|Walking Around

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and moviehouses

dried up， waterproof^{1， like a swan made of felt}

steering^{2 my way in a water of wombs and ashes.}

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse^3sobs4.

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，

no more goods， no spectacles， no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails

and my hair and my shadow.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous

to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily，

or kill a nun^{5 with a blow on the ear.}

It would be great

to go through the streets with a green knife

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark，

insecure， stretched out， shivering with sleep，

going on down， into the moist guts^{6 of the earth，}

taking in and thinking， eating every day.

I don't want so much misery^7.

I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb，

alone under the ground， a warehouse^{8 with corpses9，}

half frozen， dying of grief.

That's why Monday， when it sees me coming

with my convict face， blazes up like gasoline，

and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel，

and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward thenight.

And it pushes me into certain corners， into some moisthouses，

into hospitals where the bones fly out the window，

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar，

and certain streets hideous^{10 as cracks in the skin.}

There are sulphur-colored birds， and hideous intestines¹¹

hanging over the doors of houses that I hate，

and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot，there are mirrors

that ought to have wept from shame and terror，

there are umbrellas everywhere， and venoms^{12， and umbilical cords.}

I stroll along serenely^{13， with my eyes， my shoes，}

my rage， forgetting everything，

I walk by， going through office buildings and orthopedic shops，

and courtyards with washing hanging from the line：

underwear， towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.

Pablo Neruda