The lost

The lost

The lost

Who walks around longing, naked mystic? How is it that I take strength from the flesh I take? What is a man, really? It's me? What do you guys? Whatever it says that is mine you must own it. Otherwise, listening to me would be wasting your time. I do not go whining through the earth: That the months pass, that the earth is muddy, miserable and very dirty. Servant moans and prayers are remedies for the sick and invalids; be conformed far from my life, I wear my hat inside and outside the house. Why do I have to pray? And worship and walk with ceremonies? After scrutinizing the strata, analyzing everything, talking to the experts and calculating minutiae, I have come to know that the most delicious tallow is attached to my bones. I see myself in all, none is more than me, nor is it less a grain of barley. I know that I am strong and healthy, Everything is moving towards me, constantly, Everything writes to me and I must decipher what it says to me. I know I'm immortal. I know that my orbit can not be described with the compass of a craftsman, that I will not lose myself as the spiral is extinguished, which in the shadow traces a child with fire of a burning coal. I know that I am venerable, And I do not force my spirit to explain or defend, For the most fixed laws never apologize (After all I am no more proud than the foundation that sustains my house),

I exist as I am, that's enough, And if no one knows I'm satisfied, Just like if everyone and one know it, There's a world that I have for the greatest of all, that is me and that I know, Si I arrive at my destination, whether today or in millions of years, I can accept it now or keep waiting, with equal joy. The base where I support my feet is granite, I laugh when they say it can dissolve, Because I know what lasts time.

Walt Whitman. What I am after all (excerpt).

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