I am wondering whether the translation of this poetry can work or not. I know you're not supposed to correct this type of stuff. Many thanks..

It's late,
my dear nightingale,
fly away.
I find myself so fragile,
Is there anything in the afterlife?
I spend time playing tetris with the pieces of my life
and I try to match up each portion, avoiding any distortion,
answering back to customary gestures logic
iron topic
without knowing if are right my moves,
I'll pay then for my mistakes
so let my worries go away:
still the future is too future
and the past isn’t gone yet
for being able to look with distance to all the events
no regrets,
while grumbling between teeth and a hoary beard
as the time flew.
I am here to call me young again,
gibbering in vain,
looking myself in a broken mirror,
watching the wrinkles than I can count,
I'm here - I claim - willing to change, taking on my responsibilities
and why such a hurry to put on your shoulders those duties,
when there is still time left for unexplored pleasures, words full of treasures?
Where is the people like me?
Where are the writers?
Where is the people, trudging day and night living,
the ones who breathe absinthe and deny any other consent,
where are the false cursed poets,
alone I am here, warming up in a fire of conformism,
letting behind any virtuosism,
hearth hostile even to respectability
and enveloped in the flames, I wonder, I scream: where is the people like me?
The memory's pendulum beats out its rhythm,
I lose days, months and romantic sunsets,
often, I swear, the icy air of February I challenged
squandering sheer time at the window
believing in a promise -poor me-,
hoping to be sought from your face,
none embrace,
I waited in vain for a smile ...
Sad, mad because the sadness is the feeling that accompanies love,
when it must go,
a love that bleeds us,
and that makes us wrong.
How tricky and ambivalent is its own game:
fertile ground for growth or even pure blame.
There is no right neither wrong,
that's not a shame for the honest,
the winner has a chameleon heart
who can listen to the roars of this powerful muscle,
true blood and affection,
blue veins and vasodilation
couldn't you bring another into your bed?
You're systole and you're diastole,
you are a windless blade,
the nerve that hurts
eventually letting me in pain
wire bare without embroidery
you're exactly the regular exception
without perfection.