O living always, always dying!
O the burials of me past and present,
O me while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever;
O me, what I was for years, now dead,
(I lament not, I am content;)
O to disengage myself from those corpses of me,
which I turn and look at where I cast them,
To pass on,
(O living! always living!)
and leave the corpses behind.
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