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death poem

hohe Wände und sehr groß
meine zutreffende Liebe von ihrem Kissen stieg
die Sonne ist oben
das Licht zurückgenommen
lassen Sie nicht hören
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
wickeln Sie die Masse im bewölkten Wetter auf
unter dusky Lorbeerblatt
welches ich erwähnen möchte
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages

 



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