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poem

in den mournful Zahlen
der Himmel
unter meinem Fenster in einer Stadtstraße
haben wir keine Schande?
und breakethbrot nicht mehr
wie ich sollen Sie, helfen Sie rechts der Welt, die falsch geht
gaily durch die Felder tanzten wir
jenseits schauen
schreckliche Wahrheiten diese sind
zum leidenschaftlichen Geliebten
für Wahrheit für Liebe
stern kalter Mann
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte

 



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