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fall poem

ich denke sie gerades herrliches
dieses ist der Song von Jugend
Sie sagen, daß Sie mich lieben
hängen Sie keinen Wreath
einige der Hurts, die Sie kuriert haben
das traurigste des Jahres
dieses Jahr
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
ich sterbe
unter den Rauch und Nebel eines Dezembernachmittages
Einfachheit
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
was es die gesagten Maschinen war
der Duft kam

 



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