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ich singe Ihnen
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter
das traurigste des Jahres
wie das Glätten fällt
erinnern sich Sie
sie sagte
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
das Swanbestehen
wer der Läufer in den Himmeln ist
ruhig mit reverance, im Awe
im September
wenig Gatter wurde schließlich erreicht

 



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