The Young Address Their Fate

Fate! We waver. Strong gusts of wind catch us
and carry us to other quarters, painfully
knocking us into the cornices of roofs.
Things and books avoid us, while
every moment we are persecuted by three roads
and seven thoughts.

Wearing a tie, tipsy, in bed, by the bell tower –
we are always at loose ends.
And the further it goes, the worse, Fate: people
already are walking through us.
When we lock ourselves in the closet or bathroom,
we nod off at once or lose consciousness.

That’s why we ask you, many-winged Fortune,
touch our faces with your flaming scale,
give us some sickness, vice, at least a vestige of vanity,
to make us heavier, to fill us to the brim
with beauty and purpose, honor and ruin.