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black poetry

in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
Glasbläser der Zeit
ich fülle diese Schale
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
ich starrte den prachtvollen Himmel an
sehen Sie, daß ich Ihnen mich gebe
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden
bleiben Sie nicht mehr
aller Tag zum Aufpassen der blauen Welle sich zu kräuseln und zu brechen
gute Frau
und so geht sie
wenn ein Brief für Freiheit erfolgt ist

 



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