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modern poetry

Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
ich bin in das Ă–dland gekommen, weil meine Seele athirst ist
erinnern sich Sie
ich rĂĽttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
ich bot sie aller Abschied
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden
ruhig mit reverance, im Awe
könnten wir aber zu wissen
BlĂĽten der Babys
weich weinend

 



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