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math poem

ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
wenn ich zurĂĽck zu Masse gehe
im September
sie hat einen freien Raum, Wind-geschĂĽtztes loveliness
Welt, die unter meiner Hand ändert
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
und während wir gingen, wurde das Gras schwach gerührt
gegen die grĂĽne Flamme des WeiĂźdorn-Baums
hohe Wände und sehr groß
es gibt eine Stadt, builded durch keine Hand

 



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