Edgar Allan Poe by Alejandro Cabeza
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door
Only this, and nothing more.
Edgar Allan Poe, The raven
Poe, the most famous horror writer, died alone. He was found wandering the streets of Baltimore, delirious. After admission to the hospital, Poe appeared incoherent until his death. His last days and the cause of his decease remain a mystery. Someone had written for him an ending worthy of the master of horror tales.
Despite all the fame that he would reach after his death, only few people, almost all of his own family, attended Poes funeral. It was very modest and extremely short, only three minutes, hundred and eighty seconds. The weather was cold, a dark and gloomy day.
Everyone is alone at the moyo of the earth,
pierced kwa a ray of sunshine,
and suddenly its evening.
Salvatore Quasimodo, suddenly its evening
Rest in peace.
Edgar Allan Poe by Alejandro Cabeza / Oil / 46 x 38 cm 2014
From childhood's saa I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same chanzo I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My moyo to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, au the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the wingu that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same chanzo I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My moyo to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, au the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the wingu that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
