For
what has a great undeniable poet been
but a crystal-clear pool
where a people discover their perfect
likeness?
What has he been
but a deep garden
where all men recognize themselves
through language?
And what
but the chord of a boundless guitar
where the fingers of the people play
their simple, their own, their strong and
true, innumerable song?
For that's why you, numerous Walt Whitman, who saw and ranted
just the right word for singing your people,
who in the middle of the night said
I
and the fisherman understood himself in his slicker
and the hunter heard himself in the midst of his gunshot
and the woodcutter recognized himself in his axe
and the farmer in his freshly sown field and the gold
panner in his yellow reflection on the water
and the maiden in her future town
growing and maturing
under her skirt
and the prostitute in her fountain of gaiety
and the miner of darkness in his steps beneath his homeland . . .
When the tall preacher, bowing his head
between his two long hands, said
I
and found himself united with the foundryman and the salesman
with the obscure traveler in a soft cloud of dust
with the dreamer and the climber,
with the earthy mason resembling a stone slab,
with the farmer and the weaver,
with the sailor in white resembling a handkerchief . . .
And all the people saw themselves
when they heard the word
I
and all the people heard themselves in your song
when they heard the word
I, Walt Whitman, a kosmos,
of Manhattan the son . . . !
Because you were the people, you were I,
and I was Democracy, the people's family name,
and I was also Walt Whitman, a kosmos,
of Manhattan the son . . . !