cupbearer of death
it’s autumn mother and basil is drying,
farmers are leaving them to die in a haystack;
in my boots there is too sad wind,
that’s the north wind bringing hope submerged.
her sails are torn, mother, but she
through a stream and flute /
in heavy boots
where thousands of bagpipes
in order to hear her.
ears of my dear,
ears of my close,
ears of my regulars,
ears of my dead.
it’s horrible how sadness passes,
fast train through a station fence /
cold night is pelting
and leaves are hitting;
in heavy boots,
in my view