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family poem

vor er war viele und viel einem Jahr
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
noch dreizehn Jahre
meine Seele geht in den gorgeous Sachen plattiert
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
Farbtöne der Nacht fielen schnell
wenn der Wind gegen uns in der Dunkelheit arbeitet
von Fußboden zu Decke
lassen Sie mich durch die Straße langsam bewegen

 



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