Half-timbered, specks of excrement
standing so still in history.
Whirlwind childhood, quickly spent,
so old and gray now. Look at me.
Yes, I've mused about the option
of that dark-of-night return,
on a re-birthing adoption,
hide behind a veil of fern.
Stare at yellowing wallpaper,
listen to the dripping tap.
Breathe medieval, musty vapour,
don my olive Wehrmacht cap.
could you get me one of those caps Herbert it has to be olive AJS
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
conjures memories of struggle and past events...unneeded guilt. strong work, Mr. Nehrlich. -Tailor