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poem for dad

Nacht ist dunkel und die Winterwinde
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
wir waren nicht viele
ich liebe die alten melodious Lagen
Sturm
er spricht nicht gut
tat Sie hören überhaupt
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
gestiegen von den Toten
Gott
zwischen den musing Sonnenuntergang und die Dunkelheit
wie ein blanker Mann ich gehen
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
ich weiĂź nicht wo

 



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