To Him That was Crucified

…from the quills of the dead white poets

Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)

 

My spirits to yours dear brother,

Do not mind because many sounding your name do not understand you,

I do not sound your name, but I understand you,

I specify you with joy O my comrade to salute you, and to salute those

who are with you, before and since, and those to come also,

That we all labor together transmitting the the same charge and succession,

We few equals indifferent of lands, indifferent of times,

We, enclosers of all continents, all castes, followers of all theologies,

Compassionaters, percievers, rapport of men,

We walk silent among disputes and assertions, but reject not the disputers

nor any thing that is asserted,

We hear the bawling and din, we reach’d at by divisions,

jealousies, recriminations on every side,

They close peremptorily upon us to surround us, my comrade,

Yet we walk unheld, free, the whole earth over, journeying up and down

till we make our ineffaceable mark upon time and diverse eras,

Till we saturate time and eras, that the men and women of races, ages to come,

may prove brethren and lovers as we are.

About Paul Jacko

Jacko was born in Czechoslovakia not long before the communist putsch in February 1948. He studied industrial chemistry there and left in 1969 for Australia, where he became a lawyer and established his own practice. He has now retired and beside hunting, fishing, camping, prospecting and playing golf he amuses himself by writing.
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