It so happens I am sick of being a man.

　　And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie　houses

　　dried up， waterproof¹， like a swan made of felt

　　steering² my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

　　The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse³　sobs⁴.

　　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 nun⁵ 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 guts⁶ of the earth，

　　taking in and thinking， eating every day.

　　I don't want so much misery⁷.

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

　　alone under the ground， a warehouse⁸ 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 the　night.

　　And it pushes me into certain corners， into some moist　houses，

　　into hospitals where the bones fly out the window，

　　into shoeshops that smell like vinegar，

　　and certain streets hideous¹⁰ 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 venoms¹²， and umbilical cords.

　　I stroll along serenely¹³， 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