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thanksgiving poetry

tat Sie hören überhaupt
zwischen den musing Sonnenuntergang und die Dunkelheit
das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
ein Himmel, der nie Sonne, Mond oder Sterne gekannt hat
wenn Nacht entlang den Straßen der Stadt treibt
auf und ab geht ihn
Melancholie, Blau war sie
weiße Schaumgummiblume, rote Flammeblume
Töchter der Zeit
es gab eine Zeit in den ehemaligen Jahren
hoch-getragenes Rennen

 



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