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kid poem

Tochter, thoukunst kommen zu sterben
allein
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
Sie sagen, daß Sie mich lieben
Glasbläser der Zeit
vor er war viele und viel einem Jahr
Frau vermißte viel, wie Sie zu mir benennen, Anruf zu mir
jenseits schauen
ich weiß nicht wo
meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
wie das Glätten fällt
läßt lang das Sommertageslicht glänzen

 



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