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sad love poem

er wird gegangen
achtzig Jahre haben und mehr überschritten
Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
Sie sind schön und verblassen
hoch-getragenes Rennen
durch die ausgedehnten schmerzende Brust der Masse
ich weiß, was Sie sagen werden
von der Sonne noch Sterne
erklären Sie mir
wie Adler auf hoher Höhe
wenn ich zurück zu Masse gehe
da ich der Richtung des Todes geglaubt habe
wer den Wind nennen wird

 



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