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mother daughter poem

seien Sie nicht falsch
wer der Läufer in den Himmeln ist
liebe Frau
wer den Wind nennen wird
herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais
zwischen den musing Sonnenuntergang und die Dunkelheit
ihr schönes Haar
obwohl ich wenig als alle kleinen Sachen bin
es gibt eine Stadt, builded durch keine Hand
Stadt, die nicht eine Stadt ist
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
rückwärts drehen Sie sich rückwärts

 



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