Der Tod Des Pfarrers Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

When guardian angels failed you in the very end
you counted silently lest youngsters overhear,
you sensed inside you how this time you would not mend
and scrunched your pillow up against your burning ear.

It soon was taken from you, cells make their own rules
like Ceasar's armies all now lusting for red blood;
a tiny rogue persuades all mortals to be fools
your march of glory did proceed, led by a dud.

Those left are laughing and they sing of times so still
like summer's shade trees as they whisper to the weeds
you hoped they'd bury you behind the Potter's Mill
and let you take that special portrait and the beads.