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funeral poem

als weiße Kerze
um Mitternacht
war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
geheimnisvolle Nacht
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins
er war ein hohes junges oysterman
über dem Fluß winken sie zu mir zu
ich sah die erste Birne
gestiegen von den Toten
unter dem Helm des Warriors
ich kann nicht Ihnen jetzt erklären

 



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