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myspace poem

ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
ich loathed Sie
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
bleiben Sie nicht mehr
Glück
wenn ein Brief für Freiheit erfolgt ist
es war der Herbst des Jahres
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
alle jene Schätze, die liegen
Bruder, bin ich Feuer
ich kann nicht Ihnen jetzt erklären
das traurigste des Jahres
wie ein blanker Mann ich gehen
es gibt eine Stunde des ruhigen Restes

 



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