Un bri d'herba

"Jo crec que un bri d'herba no és menys

que la jornada de les estrelles.

I que la formiga, un gra de sorra

o l'ou d'un reietó són igualment perfectes.

I que el gripau és una obra mestra per a l'Omnipotent,

i que l'esbarzarola que cau

podria adornar les sales del cel (...)

Walt Whitman, Cant de mi mateix.

O Captain! My Captain!

"O Captain! my Captain, our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack,
the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel,
the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
The arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip, the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead."

Walt Whitman, Drum Taps.

Quicksand years

Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail, lines give away, substances mock and elude me,
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-posses'd soul, eludes not,
One's-self must never give way -that is the final substance -that out of all is sure,
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what at last finally remains?
When shows break up, what but One's-self is sure?


(Años inestables que me arrojáis no sé a dónde,
Vuestros planes y vuestra política fracasan, los trazos se
desvanecen, las sustancias se burlan de mí y se me escapan,
Sólo el tema que yo canto, el alma grande y fuerte,
no se me escapa,
Ser uno mismo no debe desvanecerse nunca -esa es la sustancia
primordial -esa la única cosa segura entre todas,
De la política, triunfos, batallas, vida, ¿qué queda al fin?
Cuando los espectáculos terminan, ¿qué es lo seguro salvo uno mismo?)

Walt Whitman, Drum Taps. Ediciones Hiperión.