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daughter poem

gestiegen von den Toten
ein Schimmer des Goldes in gloom und Grau
ich liebe, eine Weile weg zu stehlen
zweifellos erinnere mich ich noch
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
die auf das Oberseite sagen, daß sie Sie, Masse kennen -- sie sind Lügner
möglicherweise ist es gleichgültig, das Sie starben
entlang den Bänken
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
mit den meek, braunen Augen

 



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