Radio Manu, Papa Tzango.

DOY BREDav alm land

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me.

He complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed.

I too am untranslatable.

I sound my barbaric yop over the roofs of the world.

The last scut of day holds back for me.

It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadowed wilds.

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air.

I shake my locks at the runaway sun.

I effuse my flesh and eddies and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love.

If you want me again, look for me under your boot soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, but I show be good health to you nevertheless

and filter and fiber your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, missing me one place, search another.

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

That's the last stanza of a poem called Song of Myself by Walt Whitman.

If you're into poetry at all, if you're into reading the words of someone who simultaneously

gave zero fox and gave every fox, that's your guy.

...