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black poetry

das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
gestern Abend legte der Vollmond ein Tuch von Weiß
er erklärt von den guten alten Zeiten
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
die hypocritic Tage
weich weinend
ich bilde meinen Abschirmrahmen, aber niemand weiß
schöne, tragical Gesichter
als ich in Ihre Augen schaute
ich wundere manchmal, mich wenn es wirklich zutreffend ist

 



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