His own way

In the odors
Is mixed
What we do
Substrate dismissed

In the sea
Stifle our
Relatives at the
Rubbish and the
Plastic we do
For recycling
No longer needed

The May beetles are
The peasants
The frost to the
become Plage

The bloom
At every hedge
Has become a memorial

The paradise
From which we thrown
The unrest keeps us
day and night
To the trot
early morning

Loneliness
In which we are endlessly busy
To mind and body
Sick and needy

Without food
For the mind
Without balsam
And salvation
Everyone
In it
Own cross
His
own way