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


a miracle,

in imagination


till born

in human –

looks out of the heart

burning with purity –

for the burden of life

is love,

but we carry the weight


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 centre

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                     San Jose, 1954


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