Whitman’s Lament

I like to think of my books as my children; but they are quite cold and intangible and inanimate.
Everyone who loves is essentially guilty of betrayal; whether by his right hand, or by his left.
Maybe one day I will finally turn to stone, like the Narnians I used to be enthralled by as a child.
I don’t want to ever be buried.
Make me a pillar of granite, and not of salt.
And let me stand without a throne, gazing ever outwards beneath the kindly tears of heaven.
I will watch, and my heart shall evermore be silent.
If there be tongues, they shall cease. If there be hearts, they shall cease to beat.
But I shall perdure, and if the hills shall ever have an end, then let this last end, even too, perish with it all.
And let no fleeting hindrance to the wheel of Time and Season thwart her in her giddy spin.
As sunset falls.

She shall return, and her blossoms shall be millions.

But I must surely vanish from the page of time, in the decrepitude of guilt.

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