Blind lament in the wind, winter days of moon,
Childhood, the steps fade softly near a black hedge,
Long evening bells.
Softly the white night approaches,
Transforms pain and worriment into purple dreams
Of stony living
So the thorny sting will never leave the rotting body.
Deep in slumber, the anxious soul heaves a sigh,
The wind deep in broken trees,
And the lamenting figure
Of the mother sways through the lonely forest
Of this speechless grief; nights
Filled with tears, fiery angels.
Silver, a childlike skeleton smashes against a bare wall.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt