How could it be possible that I, tousled, might be reduced to dust,
Might lay down my indefatigable body like a log?
If all my twenty awkward years
Boom like the thick trees—to live!…
To live! To be torn into shreds by the winds,
To be shed to the ground with the hot leaves,
But only to feel how the arteries push,
To bend with pain, to be whipped-up by frenzy.