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.