The Gravel in Your Guts.

The weight of the world 

     is love. 

Under the burden 

     of solitude, 

under the burden 

     of dissatisfaction 

     the weight, 

the weight we carry 

     is love. 

Who can deny? 

     In dreams 

it touches 

     the body, 

in thought 

     constructs 

a miracle, 

     in imagination 

anguishes 

     till born 

in human— 

looks out of the heart 

     burning with purity— 

for the burden of life 

     is love, 

but we carry the weight 

     wearily, 

and so must rest 

in the arms of love 

     at last, 

must rest in the arms 

     of love. 

No rest 

     without love, 

no sleep 

     without dreams 

of love— 

     be mad or chill 

obsessed with angels 

     or machines, 

the final wish 

     is love 

—cannot be bitter, 

     cannot deny, 

cannot withhold 

     if denied: 

the weight is too heavy 

     —must give 

for no return 

     as thought 

is given 

     in solitude 

in all the excellence 

     of its excess. 

The warm bodies 

     shine together 

in the darkness, 

     the hand moves 

to the center 

     of the flesh, 

the skin trembles 

     in happiness 

and the soul comes 

     joyful to the eye— 

yes, yes, 

     that’s what 

I wanted, 

     I always wanted, 

I always wanted, 

     to return 

to the body 

     where I was born. 

—Allen Ginsberg, 1954