Classic Poem

Since Maria left me to go to another star, which, Orion, Altair, and you, green Venus?-I always loved the solitude. That long days I spent alone with my cat. For one , I mean without a material being and my cat is a tick mystical companion, a spirit. I can say that I spent long hours alone with my cat, and only with one of the last authors of the Latin decadence because since white creature is no longer strange and strangely I liked everything which is summed up in this word: fall. Thus, in the year, my favorite season, these are the last days of languid summer, immediately preceding the fall and in the day time when I walk is when the sun sits before s 'faint, with rays of yellow copper on the gray walls and red copper tiles. Similarly, the literature to which my mind will demand a pleasure health agoni poetry of the last moments of Rome, both, however, it does not breathe rejuvenating the approach of the barbarians and stutters childish point of the first Christian Latin prose.
I read one of these dear poems (including eye plates have more charm on me that the Crimson Youth) and plunged a hand in pure animal fur, when a barrel organ sang languish, and sadly sufficiently under my window. He played in the main avenue of poplars whose leaves me seem dull even in the spring, since Maria spent there with candles, one last time. The instrument sad, yes, really: the piano twinkles, violin gives light torn fibers, but the barrel organ in the twilight of memory, made me despair ately dream. Now he whispered a cheerfully vulgar air and put the gaiety in the heart of the suburbs, a quaint air, banal: where does his jingle was me to the core and made me cry like a romantic ballad? I savored slowly and I do not cast a penny out of the window for fear of disturbing me and see me as the instrument did not sing alone.