The lonely man

THE LONELY MAN

And every morning of his life, awakening,
he sadly turns around in bed, each day;
his hands, in nervous crumpling,
are playing with the linen sheet he tossed away.

The shutters, left ajar, allow a timid light
to shine upon his countenance and couch,
outline his slender figure, as the dawn dispels the night
and seeks to give a chilly kiss upon his mouth.

Within his empty life he feels so tired and weary
– he lives but by himself and passive are his days,
in sadness, since there isn’t anybody
who cares to give him more than just the handsome phrase.

He sees himself begin another day:
his room awaits him with a gruff reception
of silence and a covered meal upon a tray,
which is consumed without a friend or a relation.

his work within his bookery, so tiring,
and for a moment there’s a smile upon His face,
when, after long and patient hunting,
he’s found a poem full of elegance and grace.

He sees himself awandering,
far through the wide fields, to the sea.
And everywhere he takes along his suffering
and no one meets him with a word of comfort in his grief.

And in the evening, when everywhere the lamps are lighting,
his loneliness becomes the deepest sorrowing,
because he knows in almost every other dwelling
a circle of gay faces, with fireside comfort beaming.

And bitterly, fulfilled with grief an fright,
he buries in his tear-stained hands his head.
And through the shutters plays the morning-light,
outlines his shadow on the whitewashed wall above his head.