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family poetry

ich brenne keinen Duft
rühren Sie sich
gestiegen von den Toten
der Duft kam
die kleinen weißen Gebete
als ich in Ihre Augen schaute
bis zu ihrem Raumfenster
sie sprengte fierce Wein
über den Dachspitzen laufen Sie die Schatten der Wolken
gegangen vor uns
nie in meinem ganzem Leben
und noch gingen sie an
die Luft ist von Dämmerung und Frühling voll
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes

 



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