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child poetry

Dame, Ihr Herz hat an Staub gewendet
die Schiffe liegen in der Bucht
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
Melancholie, Blau war sie
dunkelstes, merkwürdigstes Geheimnis
zwischen den musing Sonnenuntergang und die Dunkelheit
hoch-getragenes Rennen
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
ich bilde meinen Abschirmrahmen, aber niemand weiß
Sonne trat unten von seinem goldenen Throne
Tochter, thoukunst kommen zu sterben

 



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