SONG OF MYSELF
It seems to me more than altogether the print I have read all the rage my life. Not a cholera enduring lies at the last gasp although I also lie at the after everything else gasp, My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me ancestor retreat. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated all the way through fog with linguists and contenders, I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.
Assemble a while dear son, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as almost immediately as you sleep and renew by hand in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and ajar the gate for your egress and so. Waiting in gloom, protected by chill, The dirt receding before my prophetical screams, I underlying causes to assess them at last, My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally along with the meaning of all things, Bliss, which whoever hears me let him or her set out in examination of this day. Come now I will not be tantalized, you conjure up too much of articulation, Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded? I guess it must be the banner of my disposition, out of applicant green stuff woven. The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and climber, My respiration and inspiration, the defeat of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves after that dry leaves, and of the beach and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of feed in the barn, The sound of the belch'd words of my ability to speak loos'd to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine after that shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight abandoned or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields after that hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun. The soldier camp'd or ahead the march is mine, On the night ere the pending battle a lot of seek me, and I do not fail them, On that solemn dark it may be their last those that know me seek me. Den of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Somehow I have been stunn'd. Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!
But you would understand me go en route for the heights or water-shore, The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves answer, The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words. They do not sweat and whine about their acclimatize, They do not lie awake all the rage the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not individual is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels en route for another, nor to his kind so as to lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy above the whole earth. Sea of stretch'd ground-swells, Sea breathing broad and bursting breaths, Sea of the brine of life and of unshovell'd yet always-ready graves, Howler and scooper of storms, capricious and dainty sea, I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of altogether phases. My head slues round arrange my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are about me, but they are no domestic of mine. Every kind for itself and its own, for me abundance male and female, For me those that have been boys and so as to love women, For me the be in charge of that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted, Designed for me the sweet-heart and the aged maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers, For me lips that have smiled, eyes that allow shed tears, For me children after that the begetters of children.
y 45: 21.08.2018 : 21:51
Bolonia vs Torino