When guardian angels failed you in the very end <br />you counted silently lest youngsters overhear, <br />you sensed inside you how this time you would not mend <br />and scrunched your pillow up against your burning ear. <br /> <br />It soon was taken from you, cells make their own rules <br />like Ceasar's armies all now lusting for red blood; <br />a tiny rogue persuades all mortals to be fools <br />your march of glory did proceed, led by a dud. <br /> <br />Those left are laughing and they sing of times so still <br />like summer's shade trees as they whisper to the weeds <br />you hoped they'd bury you behind the Potter's Mill <br />and let you take that special portrait and the beads.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/der-tod-des-pfarrers/
