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mom poem

ich singe Ihnen
was es die gesagten Maschinen war
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
er warfen einen Stein, Sie warfen einen Stein
Farbtöne der Nacht fielen schnell
über den Dachspitzen laufen Sie die Schatten der Wolken
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
ich brenne keinen Duft
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
mit den meek, braunen Augen

 



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