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autumn poem

ein kleiner Pfirsich im Obstgarten wuchs
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
gegen die grĂĽne Flamme des WeiĂźdorn-Baums
sie war eine Schönheit an den Tagen
traurige Rolle der gedämpften Trommel hat Schlag
wenn ihr Haar wild flaying
Dame, Ihr Herz hat an Staub gewendet
zwischen den musing Sonnenuntergang und die Dunkelheit
es gibt eine Stadt, builded durch keine Hand
warum
warum Sie immer der dort shivering Standplatz tun Sie

 



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