The Poem Is Lonely. It Is Lonely

There's Nothing In The World For Which A Poet Will Give Up Writing, Not Even He Is A Jew And The Language Of His Poems Is German.

Death Is A Master From Germany.

Read! Read All The Time, The Understanding Will Come By Itself.

With Wine And Being Lost, With Less And Less Of Both: I Rode Through The Snow, Do You Read Me I Rode God Far--i Rode God Near, He Sang, It Was Our Last Ride Over The Hurdled Humans. They Cowered When They Heard Us Overhead, They Wrote, They Lied Our Neighing Into One Of Their Image-ridden Languages.

A Nothing We Were, Are, Shall Remain, Flowering: The Nothing--, The No One's Rose.