born alone.
grew up without realizing that the time walked behind him,
loved and suffered amid a crowd of blind people.
Gray wrote his poem of love and death,
furiously stroked glory rushed.
hung his tender heart of the highest branch,
and when he thought he had done everything
angel opened his door with curiosity,
undaunted leaving the other side,
while the statues of the parks
crying about birds silenced.
So left without saying goodbye in the afternoon,
aware of his footsteps lost in the distance,
and leaving us in the mouth
the bitterness of his last verses,
falling like rain on a bleak street
abominable tonight ... that never ends.
.
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