°°Zolo para ti°°

Walking Around – Pablo Neruda

Happen to be tired of being a man.
It happens that I go into the tailoring and in theaters
withered, impenetrable, like a felt swan
navigating awater of origin and ash.

The smell of barbershops makes me mourn aloud.
I just want a break from stones or wool,
I just do not see establishments or gardens,
nor merchandise,nor glasses, nor elevators.

Happen to be tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
Happen to be tired of being a man.

However it would be delicious
scare anotary with a cut lily
or kill a nun with a blow of an ear.
It would be beautiful
go through the streets with a green knife
shouting until I died of cold.
I do not want to remainrooted in darkness,
vacillating, extended, shivering with dreams,
down in the gut dwellings of the land,
absorbing and thinking, eating every day.

I do not want so much misery.I will not continue as a root and a tomb,
solitary tunnel, a warehouse with corpses,
shivering, dying of grief.

For this reason Monday burns like oil
about me carry it in myface jail
and howls in passing like a wounded wheel,
and take steps of hot blood into the night.

And pushes me to certain corners, to certain damp houses,
to hospitals wherethe bones come out of the window,
certain shoe smelling of vinegar,
to streets hideous as cracks.
There are birds the color of sulfur and horrible intestines
hanging from thedoorways I hate,
dentures are forgotten in a coffeepot,
no mirrors
which should have wept with shame and horror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, poisons, and navels.

I walk calmly,with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
step, I cross offices and orthopedic shops,
and yards where clothes hung on a wire:
underwear, towels and shirts that weep