Bluish shadows. O you dark eyes
That gaze long at me gliding past.
Guitar chords softly accompany autumn
In the garden, dissolved in brown lyes.
Nymph-like hands prepare
The earnest somberness of death, decayed lips
Suck at red breasts and in black lyes
The moist curls of the sun-youth glide.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt