Escucho a Whitman cantarme entre sueños:
Listen, I will be honest with you
I do not offer the old smooth prizes
But offer rough new prizes
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is called riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve.
However sweet the laid up stores,
However convenient the dwelling, you shall not remain there.
However sheltered the port, however calm the waters, you shall not anchor there.
However welcome the hospitality that welcomes you,
You are permitted to receive it but a little while
Afoot and lighthearted, take to the open road
Healthy, free, the world before you, the long brown path before you, leading wherever you choose.
Say only to one another:
Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money;
I give you myself before preaching and law:
Will you give me yourself?
Will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?
Entonces me despierto, froto mis ojos y me pregunto a mí misma: ¿Cómo no agarrar la mochila, ponérmela al hombro y avanzar de la mano de esa transfiguración, caminando hacia el abismo, el sueño o la quebrada... con esta canción con la que Whitman bendice a los amantes que aprendieron a convertir la escarcha en fuego?