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inspirational poetry

das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
gestiegen von den Toten
ich liebe meine Stunde des Winds und des Lichtes
unter den Bergen wandered ich
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter
ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
Roses und Gold
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
ich sterbe
ich brenne keinen Duft


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