The icicles
It is called, there is him.
Under the umbrella in the shade,
a radish, faustgross.
If it stays cold, should it grow there?.
It is called, he is always warm.
Only those he surrounds, freeze.
Since it now remains minus,
he can't break there.
I don't know anyone, The one is.
Grows in the ice and cries in the sun.
Because I didn't find one like that.
At most found one stub.
Zerbrach, As soon as I touched him,
Was water in my hand.
They tell things, who are not correct.
Over the icicles.
About all things.
It is called, there is him, gross
Like a radish,
It means, he is always warm.
It is called, He can't break,
hold the cold together,
Then he grows.
He hates the transformation.
But he doesn't change,
To the uncomfortable!?
Is he not a giant!?
He doesn't break, he rises
not in my hand!?
Now, Because it stays warm
does not exist.
(25.1.23)
Frost
Thawed from the inside.
you were so open.
Didn't count on the frost,
a little bit later.
It started with a high trickle,
the kind, sing like night ghosts.
Small white chips against that
Membran pinned.
shock rigidity, the next morning.
You would never have believed it!
And how he was ambush.
Surprised the most vulnerable on theirs
soft paths. Were defenseless,
for each other warm.
Clumped them, she hooded.
And now everyone is with that———- Frost
baptized.
(2.23)