I FALL full length into all life,
And my lust for living roars within me.
No pleasures in the world can equal
The stupendous joy of one who can't tell it
Except by rolling on the ground in the grass and the daisies,
Mingling with the dirt until his suit and hair are ***** . . .
There are no verses that can grant this.
Pluck a blade of grass, bite into it, and you will understand,
You will completely understand what I incompletely express.
I crave to be a root
Pursuing my inner sensations like a sap . . .
I'd like to have all the senses -- including
My intellect, imagination and inhibition --
On my skin's surface so that I could roll over the rough ground
More deeply within, feeling more roughness and bumps.
I'd be satisfied if my body were my soul,
For only then would all winds, all suns and all rains
Be felt by me in the way I'd like.
This being impossible, I despair, I rage,
I wish I could gnash at my suit
And have a lions tough claws to rip at my flesh
Until the blood would flow, flow, flow, flow  . . .
I suffer because all of this is absurd,
As if I could scare somebody
With my hostile feeling toward destiny, toward God,
Which arises when we confront the Ineffable
And suddenly perceive our weakness and smallness.

Whatever the case, it would have been better not to be born,
For no matter how interesting it is at every moment,
Life sometimes hurts, jades, cuts, bruises, grates,
Makes us want to scream, to jump, to wallow, to walk
Out of every house and every logic and off every balcony,
And to become savage and die among trees and things forgotten,
Among collapses and hazards and absence of tomorrows,
And all this, O life, should be something closer to what I think,
To what I think or what I feel, whatever that is.

I cross my arms on the table, I lay my head on my arms,
And I need to want to cry, but I don't know where to find the tears.
No matter how hard I try to pity myself, I don't cry,
My soul is broken under the curved finger that touches it . . .
What will become of me? What will become of me?