How to beat atramedes hearth stone
Section 33, 我 自己 的 歌
Space and time! Now I see that what I suspected is true
What I suspected as I strolled across the grass
What I suspected when I was lonely in bed
And again as I walked on the beach under the fading taxes of the morning.
My shackles and ballast fall off me, my elbows rest in bays of the sea,
I line sierras, my palms cover continents,
I wander with my faces.
Between the cubes of houses in the city, in log huts with lumberjacks,
Along the tracks of the country road, along the dry ravine and along the bed of the brook,
Weeding my onion fields or chopping furrows for parsnips and carrots, crossing savannas, paving my way through forests,
Measuring land, digging gold, circling trees on a newly acquired piece of land,
Scorched ankle deep from the hot sand as I drag my boat down the shallow river,
Where the panther sneaks back and forth on a branch at my head, where the roebuck furiously attacks the hunter,
Where the rattlesnake basks its meager length on the rock, where the otter eats fish,
Where the alligator sleeps in its tough warty shell by the bay,
Where the black bear looks for roots and berries, where the beaver slaps the mud with his oar tail,
Over sprouting sugar cane, yellow-flowered cotton bush, over the rice in the low-lying moist field,
Over the pointed gabled farmhouse with a jagged ridge and slender castings in the eaves,
About the persimmons of the west, long-leaved maize and flax with a delicate blue bloom,
Over the buckwheat white and brown, a hum and buzzer there with the others,
Across the dusky green of the rye, which curls in the wind in a shady way,
Climbing mountains, carefully pulling me up, holding me by low rough branches,
Walking the well-trodden path in the grass or hitting me through the thicket,
Where the quail whistles between the wheat and the forest, where the bat flies in July evening, where the big gold beetle falls through the dark,
Where the spring jumps from the roots of the old tree and flows into the meadow,
Where the cattle stand and the flies shake off with twitching skin,
Where the cheesecloth hangs in the kitchen, where the fire rams spread over the hearth, where cobwebs hang in festoons from the rafters,
Where steam hammers crack, where the press whirls its cylinders,
Everywhere where the human heart beats with terrible cramps under the ribs,
Where the pear-shaped balloon floats high up (I float in it myself and look down calmly),
Where the rescue cart is dragged by the loop, where the heat broods pale green eggs in the frizzy sand,
Where the female whale swims with her calf and never leaves
Where the steamship pulls its long pennant of smoke behind it
Where the shark's fin cuts like a black chip out of the water,
Where the half-burned brig drifts in an unknown current
And shells grow on their slimy deck and the dead rotten down in the room,
Where the thickly harvested banner flies at the head of the regiment,
Up the long island, Manhattan to;
Under Niagara, where the falls fall like a veil over my face,
On a door step, on the hard wooden riser block,
On the racetrack or happily at picnics or at a dance or a good game of baseball,
At men's feasts with juicy jokes, biting wildness, bull dances, drinking, laughter,
At the cider press, where I taste the sweetness of the brown porridge and suck the juice through a stalk
And when I peel apples I ask for kisses for every red fruit I find
At pattern, beach party, coffee party, corn husk and topping-out ceremony;
Where the mocking bird whistles its delightful throat sounds, giggles, screams, sobs,
Where the haystack is in the barn, where the litter is made, where the breeding cow waits in the stable,
Where the bull comes to do his male work, where the stallion covers the mare, where the rooster kicks the hen,
Where the heifer grazes, where the geese pluck their fodder with short jerks,
Where evening shadows grow over the endlessly lonely steppe.
Where the crawling blanket of the herd of buffalo stretches for miles far and near,
Where the hummingbird shines, where the long-lived swan's neck twists and turns,
Where the black-headed gull flashes on the beach and laughs its almost human laugh,
Where beehives stand, lined up on a gray bench in the garden, half-hidden by the tall weeds,
Where collar partridges sleep in a circle, pressed to the ground, heads high,
Where hearses drive through the arched gate of a cemetery
Where winter wolves bark in deserts of snow and icy trees,
Where the yellow crowned heron comes to the edge of the swamp at night to fish for crabs,
Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm midday
Where the cricket practices its chromatic pan flute on the walnut tree above the fountain,
Through lemon and cucumber beds with silver-veined leaves,
Through the salt puddle and the orange grove, under the cones of the spruce trees,
Through the gymnasium, the curtained drawing room, the office, and the public hall;
Full of pleasure in the local and the foreign, in the old and the new,
On the unsightly woman and on the beautiful
At the Quaker, how she takes off the bonnet and speaks sonorous,
At the song of the choir in the whitewashed church
The serious words of the sweating Methodist preacher and the poignant field service;
Looking at the shop windows on Broadway all morning, the flesh of my nose pressed flat against thick mirrors,
Walking the same afternoon with your face turned up to the clouds, along a dirt road or along the beach,
My arms left and right around two friends and I in the middle;
Coming home with the silent, dark-cheeked forest boy (behind me he rides in the veils of the evening),
Far from the settlements peering the tracks of the game or the tracks of moccasins,
Handing his glass of lemonade to a fever patient on the bed in the hospital,
Close to the corpse in the coffin, when everything is still, illuminating it with candlelight;
Traveling to every port on adventure and trading,
Hasty with the hustle and bustle of the modern age, as fidgety and nimble as only one,
Hot against the one I hate, ready to stab him in my anger,
Lonely at midnight in the garden behind the house, my thoughts far from me for a long time,
Walking over the ancient hills of Judea, by the side of the beautiful, benevolent God,
Whizzing through space and whizzing through sky and stars,
Whizzing between the seven planets, the broad ring and the eighty thousand miles of diameter,
Whizzing with meteors, hurling fireballs like them,
Carrying the growing moon child who carries his own full mother in his belly,
Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, warning,
Stringing myself back up again, appearing, disappearing,
I walk such paths day and night.
I visit the orchards of the spheres and look at their fruits,
I look at quintillion ripe and look at quintillion green.
I fly the flight of a pouring, drinking soul
My course is deep below the plumb line.
I help myself to physical and immaterial,
No guard can block my way and no law can prevent me.
I just let my ships drop anchor for a little while
My messengers are constantly cruising outside and bringing their reports to me.
I hunt for polar fur and seals, jump over cracks on an iron-hammered stick, cling to the splintering blue of the spikes.
I climb the top
Put me in the masthead late at night
We're sailing through arctic seas, it's bright enough
Through the clear air I look all around at the wonderful beauty,
The huge masses of ice drift past me and I can see the picture on all sides,
White-peaked mountains appear in the distance, I send my dreams towards them;
We're approaching a great battlefield where we'll soon have to fight
We pass the huge outposts of the camp, carefully and silently we glide past them,
Or we move through the suburbs into a big, devastated city,
The blocks and rubble of the buildings might be more powerful than any living city on the globe.
I am a riot, bivouacked at the conquerors' fires,
I throw the groom out of bed and lay myself with the bride,
I hold her to my thighs and lips all night.
My voice, the woman's voice, the cry on the banister,
They bring up my husband's corpse for me, dripping, drowned.
I understand the great hearts of the heroes
The courage of today and ever
How the ship's captain saw the rudderless, crowded wreck of the steamer that death chased up and down in the storm
How he gripped tightly and did not give way an inch and remained faithful day and night
And in chalk large letters wrote on a board: "Be quiet, we are not leaving you!"
How he drove with them and maneuvered for three days and never let up,
How he finally took in the driving force
How the exhausted women in loose clothes looked when they were boated away from the edge of their open graves,
And the silent children with old faces, the uplifted sick people and unshaven, sharp-lipped men;
I suck all that into me, it tastes good, it will be mine, I like it,
I am the man, I suffered, I was there.
The world contempt and rest of martyrs,
The mother of yore, condemned as a witch, burned in front of the children on dry wood,
The slave, chased with dogs, exhausted from running, leaning against the fence, panting, covered in sweat,
The stitches like needles on the legs and neck, the murderous deer posts and bullets,
I feel or am all of this.
I am the haunted slave, I wriggle under the bites of the dogs,
Hell and despair over me, crash after crash the gunshots of the hunters,
I clench the posts of the fence, my clumpy blood drips, thinned by the sweat of my skin,
I fall on weeds and stones
The riders spur the bucking horses, pull them close to me,
Shout mockery in my dizzy ears and furiously hit me over the head with whips.
Torments are like changing clothes
I don't ask the sore person how he is doing, I'll be the sore person myself,
As I lean on my stick and watch, the wounds burn on me.
I'm the crushed fireman with a broken sternum
Falling walls buried me in rubble
I breathed embers and smoke, I heard the piercing calls of the comrades,
Heard the distant pecking of their picks and shovels
They cleared away the beams, they gently pull me out.
I lie in my red shirt in the night air, all around is deep silence for my sake,
Pain-free after everything, I lie exhausted, but not exactly unhappy,
The faces around me are white and beautiful, the heads bared by the fire helmets,
The kneeling crowd goes out with the light of the torches.
Distant and dead rise again,
They are like the face and hands of mine, I am the clock.
I'm an old gunner, I'm telling about the fort's bombardment
I'm there again.
Again the long roll of the drums
Again the enemy's cannons and mortars,
Again in my listening ear the answer of our cannons.
I am there, see and hear everything
Screams, curses, roars, cheers over well-fitting shots,
The ambulance's slow train with a dripping red trail,
Workers who peek for damage and mend the bare essentials,
Grenade hit in the splitting roof, their fan-shaped burst,
Thundering sheaves of limbs, heads, stones, wood, iron high in the air.
My dying general's mouth gurgles again, angrily he waves his hand,
He gasps through the coagulated blood: "Don't think about me - think about the jumps."
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