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sad poetry

da ich der Richtung des Todes geglaubt habe
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-FaĂźraum
ĂĽber den Dachspitzen laufen Sie die Schatten der Wolken
Tochter, thoukunst kommen zu sterben
ich hatte einen Traum und ich wachte mit ihm auf
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich
wer den Wind nennen wird
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
glooms der Lebeneichen
und breakethbrot nicht mehr

 



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