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suicide poem

aus dem funkelnden Meer heraus
dieses Jahr
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
in können Sie
sehen Sie, sie zurückgehen
wenn ich zurück zu Masse gehe
ich bilde meinen Abschirmrahmen, aber niemand weiß
sind Sie wach?
mit dem Sonnenuntergang
Blüten der Babys
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze

 



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