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life poem

auf und ab geht ihn
desolate und einsam
meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
kein Opfer sind ich der schlechten Gedanken
machen Sie sich nicht Sorgen, daß er rüber sein
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
Himmel, die sie waren, ashen und nüchtern
sie kennt eine preiswerte Freigabe
dieses ist der Song von Jugend
drehen Sie mich unten durch die Wiese

 



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