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short friendship poem

ihr schönes Haar
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
mittlere Vergnügen und Paläste, obwohl wir durchstreifen können
ich stand das geöffnete Flügelfenster bereit
er erklärt von den guten alten Zeiten
die Luft ist von Dämmerung und Frühling voll
in den mournful Zahlen
von unseren versteckten Plätzen
fällt hier kein Licht
sie limps mit dem Anhalten des schmerzlichen Schrittes
warum so traurig mein reizendes?
wir, die standen

 



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