What a lot of life
and no weightless hovering
in the velvet shield of heavenly poetry.
Always weights.
No glimmer of poems;
Leaf by leaf wasted with pointed meticulousness.
With sharp tongues
then you have to sing for punishment,
as if by the senses, think it is art.
To complain
instead of moving swinging.
Waiting for the uplift in the spheres.
And now you carry sack and ashes
firm knots in the hair.
You taste blood on your tongue,
flee at their own risk.
Today you are already a boy,
yesterday you were still too old.
Whiteness of leaves
you stumble out of your forest.
You want finally without hesitation
of course.
But you are freeing black lightning on white leaves.
Wishing to revive,
unrestrained.
But instead of love, you only doodled.
If the Muses do not see you,
in diffuse light:
Every word in the bud stifled and undigested undefined.
You do not want to make a rose
at the large spines.
Your voice whispers only gibberish.
And now you carry sack and ashes
firm knots in the hair.
You taste blood on your tongue,
flee at their own risk.
Today you are already a boy,
yesterday you were still too old.
Whiteness of leaves
you stumble out of your forest.
Do you see the leaves fall?
And lures the bait's fragrance?
You will claw yourself as a savior
and throw yourself into the air.
Do you feel in intervals?
And soon the fall takes place.
How to fog in the winter.
Your fall was much too short.
And now you carry sack and ashes,
both are terribly good to you.
No, you do not want to hurt yourself,
but what remains to you without courage?
You hide yourself from the nets,
while you dye the leaves.
You never escape their stitches
and never escape the autumn