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prose poetry

das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
schön
als es
Nacht war schwarz und drear
sie limps mit dem Anhalten des schmerzlichen Schrittes
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
seien Sie in mir als die ewigen Stimmungen
Sturm
Tochter, thoukunst kommen zu sterben
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich
ich liebe meine Stunde des Winds und des Lichtes
als ich ein Junge an der Hochschule war

 



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