1891-92 (Whitman) : 2008 (myself, or at least the song of myself)

(de este lado)

--Debe ser esta obstinación, de repente, tan súbita en mi cabeza,
encontrar por algún milagro una voz ausente,
saber que la poesía es imborrable palabra en la frente;
te esperaba siglos y estuvimos sentados
la misma noche, bajo una lágrima espejeante.

...........................................................................
(the other side)
Camerado, this is not book.
Who touches this touches a man,
(Is it night? are we together alone?)
It is I you hold and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.
O how your fingers drowse me,
Your breath falls around me like dew, your pulse lulls the
Tympans of my ears,
I feel immerged from head to foot,
Delicious, enough.
Enough O’ deed impromptu secret, Enough O ‘glidging present.
Enough O summ’d-up past.
Dear friend, whoever you are take this kiss,
I give it specially to you, do not forget me,
I feel like one who has done work for the day to retile for a while,
I receive now again for my translation, from my
Avatars ascending, while others doubtless await me,
An unkown sphere more real that I dream’d, more direct,
Darts awakening rays about me, So long!
Remember my words, I may again return,
I love you, I depart from materials,
I am as one disembodied, triumpanth, dead.