In Red Foliage Full of Guitars...
In red foliage full of guitars
The girls' yellow hair blows
By the fence where sunflowers stand.
A golden chariot drives through the clouds.
In the repose of brown shadows
The old grow silent, embrace dim-wittedly.
Orphans sing sweetly for vespers.
In yellow fumes flies buzz .
At the brook women are still washing.
The hung-up linens billow.
The small child, whom I have long liked,
Comes once more through evening's grayness.
From mild skies sparrows fall
Into green holes filled with rot.
A smell of bread and harsh spices
Feigns recovery to the hungry.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt