Song of myself

(...)

I resist anything better than my own diversity,
And breath the air and leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

The moth and the fisheggs are in their place,
The suns I see and the suns I cannot see are in their place,
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.

These are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they
are not original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing or
next to nothing,
If they do not enclose everything they are next to nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they
are nothing.

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the
water is,
This is the common air that bathes the globe.

This is the breath of laws and songs and behaviour,
This is the tasteless water of souls....this is the true
sustenance,
It is for the illiterate....it is for the judges of the supreme
court....it is for the federal capitol and the state
capitols,
It is for the admirable communes of literary men and
composers and singers and lecturers and engineers and
savans.
It is for the endless races of working people and farmers and
seamen.

This is the trill of a thousand clear cornets and scream of the
octave flute and stike of triangles.

I play not a march for victors only...I play great marches
for conquered and slain persons.

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?
I also say it is good to fall....battles are lost in the same
spirit in which they are won.
(...)

(beloved Walt Whitman, The Complete Poems)

Atravessou-se-me à frente, este livro. Um Penguin Classics com as folhas amareladas e um cheiro inebriante. Tenho tantas outras coisas para ler, estudar, escrever, enfim, coisas.  Entre esta culpa e satisfação, trouxe-o comigo para casa.