After the Wars
Horses are rushing headlong
along the bank and the bridge;
no seed gets into cropland;
you stand giddily;
flying ashes are falling;
everything grows black slowly;
Grass burns out and your skin dries out;
the woods are cindery;
purple deat; nests and halls are desolate;
he, who enters them, does not find anybody.
There is no war, but death is running,
A crazy radiation pushes you ont he earth.
In bare trees the bird is a skeleton;
there is no rule wether to live or die;
your blood moulders, the stone melts;
there is no more past, there is no more future.