Zitterpappel Poem by Andreas Mueller
Zitterpappel
Der Sonnensohn ist tot.
Die Schwestern trauern
unter meiner schwarzen rissigen Haut.
Mit jedem Windhauch
singen wir das Lied der Klage.
Der Schmerz verleiht uns Schwingen.
Mit Flughaar ist er ausgestattet,
unser Samen.
MIT jedem windhauch Singen wir das lied der klage Sehr schones gedicht Andreas Thank you for sharing Mario Odekerken
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4/25/2024 5:59:30 PM # 1.0.0.1119
With every breeze let's sing the song of the suit. Pain gives wings to fly in sorrow that amazes mind. The sun son is dead. This provokes thought and agony. The sisters mourn under black cracked skin. An amazing perceptional poem is drafted.10