Nibbling the nails from its distressed roots
on the broken baldness of a hapless hill,
the solitary tree is opened by its branches and fruits
begging for the beak of a bird to sing his exile shrill.
...
Near the sea I throw this cry of colors,
my greeting and the departure of my soul with your soul…
Walt Whitman!
I can swim! I can row! I can sing! I can ride a horse!
...