Requiem for Nico Christa Päffgen (38-88)

Every summer I invariably thought of Nico. 
And the heat that day, a secret stifle of malice
The green was beautiful and European
Nico on her bicycle

To some, her voice was as a dirge;
I don't think so.

Her guttural scream,
Her knowing laugh.
The '88 like a cold war flash
not blocking from our skin
the ultraviolent trash

To me, life was hopeful;
I don't think so.

And a child's singsong 
can be heard from the fields
where once children had cried 
under skies where cranes fly

And somewhere
a fake Father Christmas feels obligation
to bring them joy
As the light of wax candles burn his eyes
In the 'odiocy' of x-T
I threw my toys

And a fraulein's mascara
freckled beneath her eyes
after she cried.

Fire at my will!
the SS could not triumph mine.