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black poetry

es gibt kein Entweichen durch den Fluß
es gibt eine Stadt, builded durch keine Hand
weich weinend
Sie sagen, daß Sie mich lieben
gegangen vor uns
ich sah mit geöffneten Augen
ein kleiner Pfirsich im Obstgarten wuchs
durch die rude Brücke
die Dichter sagen
Kerzen, die seitlich in den Tomatedosen stürzen
ich bin fevered
Blüten der Babys
ich gehe meine Weise complacently
sehen Sie, von dieser Fälschung von ihm

 



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