O Captain! My Captain!

1

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

2

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

3

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman

admirável benevolência humana

O Tomate

O Tomate é vermelho.

Sim! Ele é muito vermelho.

Um comunista vivaz

De carne macia visceral.

Malfeitor de sague quente,

Bochechas coradas

E pensamento fogoso.

Diria ruborizado.

Ver-me-lho rubor.

Pare e pense no tomate

Que quando jovem era verde

Feito doente

E com o passar dos anos

Envergonha-se feito um velho.

Sempre a ficar nervoso

Queixa-se de todos.

Diria chato.

Á-ci-do rude.

Um dia serei amigo

Do mais belo tomate

E arrancar-lhe-ei as tripas

Com uma mordida.

Uma vingança sagaz

Por sua mesquinhez

Austera e resoluta.

Diria cruel.

Sá-ti-ra perfeita.

L. Valdez