Gray sky. A rooster crows. Bitter, I look out on thickets and folds. I haven't shaken grief's rattle, yet it clatters. I haven't rung sorrow's bell, yet it tolls. Their noise only drags me down, angry with a fate that says I'm much too bold. Men of talent, learned men, where are you? Am I supposed to walk as if stooped and old?
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