In solitude
	Many miles from the next housing
	In the gleams of a beech wood fire,
	A plain, sharp mind absorbs His lines,
	Pursuing eyes of a spy mutilate the picture
	To issue, 'His quiet voice has never risen.'

	In desolation
	Secluded from recuperating sections
	In a muffled ward for the dying,
	A person's breath is softening, fainting,
	Toxic drugs freeze the face in agony
	To proof, 'His peace does not exist.'        









Udo Frentzen 1990 - 2012