Am I pathetic or what? I can't for the life of me give a title to this poem. It's a sonnet, incidentally.
But hey, classic forms of poetry seem dead anyway. Most poetry you read is dreadfully constructed 'free verse' that's basically just crapping words out onto the page in whatever 'structure' you want and calling it a poem. You're not Octavio Paz, people - don't even try.
But yeah, this is an old-school Italian-style sonnet. Eleven syllables a verse, fourteen lines arranged in two quartets and two sets of three (whose name I can't remember in English. Stupid English). Assonant rhyme rather than consonant rhyme (because I'm lazy. And sometimes, I think that assonant rhyme can be even harder). ABBA ABBA ABA BAB. We're talking all-out Italian sonnet, babeh.
And no-one is going to care. Learn another language, people.
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Esta oscuridad ya desaparece;
la penumbra, la vida sin valor.
No me canso de este mundo dorado
ni el cielo, claro, azul, que nunca muere.
El sol no quiere que el pájaro vuele,
sino que quede, colgado en el árbol,
cantando una melodía, soñando
la vida sin pena, todo alegre.
Pasa el día, va el sol, ya atardece -
al lado de un río yo voy pensando.
Me veo reflejado en la fuente,
desconocido, lleno del pasado,
canas, cicatrices, ojos que mienten,
todo oscuro, tan desesperado.