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suicide poem

die Wiese kroch
wie ein blanker Mann ich gehen
gute Frau
weich als das Bett in der Masse
unter dem Helm des Warriors
lassen Sie einen Freudenunterhalt Sie
lassen Sie uns unsere niedrigeren Neigungen ausdrücken
es gibt kein Entweichen durch den Fluß
zu einigem die fetten Götter
traurige Rolle der gedämpften Trommel hat Schlag
und wie Sie Traum der Sitzung konnten
auf und ab geht ihn

 



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