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lyric poem

mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
diese sind
jene schwarzen Augen I einmal so gepriesen
ich sah die Wolken unter den Hügeln
die langen resounding Marmorflure
entlang den Bänken
in allen Sachen gesprochen nicht von
ich liebte eine Frau
seien Sie nicht mit mir verärgert
kein Opfer sind ich der schlechten Gedanken
in ihren zackigen regimentals
wenn Nacht entlang den Straßen der Stadt treibt

 



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