What Are You Left With?

So often I’ve lugged bread for buffoons! So often
I’ve set myself on fire to get warm at my own flame. So
often I’ve felt the tongues of wolves licking my neck. So often the panther
has fixed its stare on my clothes and my shoes.
So often I’ve said: When I get back to the city,
a wolf’s entrails over my shoulder, at least once
in my life I’ll roast the livers of cocks. Must I also be party to
the others’ mistake when they experience it as their true chance and their observance
of pleasure? No way! I paint the throat of a dying man. Really--
what else am I left with?