by Allen Ginsberg

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 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. 

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