Death of a young girl in Frankfurt Bronx

.
.
.

So the young girl died,

sad, really sad, and now?

How did you get this information?

Did you pass by the cemetery?

Did you read the obituaries?

How much of her death really

touches your neighbourhood?

How much creeps

into your dreams?

Did you fall over wrinkled

blossoms beside a grave

and talked to the undertaker

who was drunk as always

and loved to tell stories about how

and why and when and above all

who, exactly, who it was,

the one for whom

he had done all the work,

hard work in these icy days

as everybody knows!

So you are new in this town,

the undertaker said,

strange mumbled sounds mixed

with a melody of throaty groans.

New here! That’s always like that,

you know, some always arrive,

while others go,

this is the circle of life.

There in the corner,

do you see him, that’s death,

standing there, smiling along,

invisible to the ignoramus,

watching and waiting.

My work never stops,

that is for sure,

but sometimes he just slightly turns,

this is the order for me to go home,

then I’m off for some days.

With this he slightly turned

but the smile stayed fixed on his face…
.
.
.