Alptraum Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Under the mistletoe,
a hundred yards below
King Ludwig's castle,
she lay, mortally wounded
and moaning softly,
among the Southern Birch.

She had encountered him,
the razorback of Steinbach,
outside of breeding season
yet still the mad and manic boar
who'd kill just for the heck of it.

Both eyes were sticking shut,
from blood and salty tears,
but with an effort, 'twas her last,
she saw the twinkle of a star,
it seemed to shine up there
like gold and silver promises,
exclusively for her.

And for so many minutes,
she waited for that kiss,
but this small mistletoe,
bred in the snow-capped Alps
was, like the Lederhosenman,
a friendly renegade.