The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around. Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty-topt! I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. I accept Reality and affidare not question it, Materialism first and last imbuing. Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling, I but enter by them to an bacino of my dwelling. Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you! Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index.
And to those themselves who sank in the sea! Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest. I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds. Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you! I wonder where they get those tokens, Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?
I chant the chant of dilation or pride, We have had ducking and deprecating about enough, I show that size is only development. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you! Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load, I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other, I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy, And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.
Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you. I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. What do you think has become of the young and old men? Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan, Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.
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Sviluppato Antonio Baritono