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autumn poetry

ich bete nicht für Frieden
in Ihren Armen war ruhige Freude
tun Sie die Jungen und Mädchen gehen noch
Schlaf süß in Ihren humble Gräbern
hoch-getragenes Rennen
es gibt ein Land voll des Weins
in den Hallen des Schlafes wandered Sie vorbei
wenn ich sterbe, denken Sie nur dieses an mich
ich sagte
er spricht nicht gut
diese alte silberne Schüssel von meinen
er war ein hohes junges oysterman
Sturm

 



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