Von Frank F.
Stumm
verhallt mein Schritt
im Schwaden,
der aus dem Rostlaub
wie ein Knebel wallt,
im Nebel
und will nun leise entfernen,
was mich in des Sommers lustigen Tiraden
so froh und bunt beritt.
Herbst
ich spüre deinen Dorn
traurig und im Zorn
und du färbst
mich Sternenstaub
schaurig
und schau ich nach vorn,
dahinter
sehe ich den Winter
und Frost.
Warum?
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