.Gray sky. A rooster crows.
Bitter, I look out on thickets and folds.
I havenât shaken griefâs rattle, yet it clatters.
I havenât rung sorrowâs bell, yet it tolls.
Their noise only drags me down, angry
with a fate that says Iâm much too bold.
Men of talent, learned men, wh.
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