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romantic poetry

wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
schauen Sie heraus nach den Sternen, meine Liebe
das traurigste des Jahres
wo ich sollen Sie, finden Sie Sie
Kurzschluß und süsses und wir sind zum Ende von ihm gekommen
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
in allen Sachen gesprochen nicht von
Sie sagen, daß Sie mich lieben
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
tat Sie hören überhaupt
gelebt durch den River-side

 



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