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sad poem

unter dem Erntemond
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden
aber alas, gerade Träume
niedrig! ' tis ein Galanacht
sehen Sie das vorläufige
die einzelne zusammengeprgessene angehobene Faust und bereiten vor
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins
dort durch das Fenster im alten Haus
ein mit Ihnen
dieses ist das Schiff der Perle
alle innen und alle ohne mich
das traurigste des Jahres
was wir jetzt tut

 



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