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prose poetry

sie war eine Schönheit an den Tagen
weich weinend
unter dem Helm des Warriors
um Mitternacht
Sturm
hören Sie
sie hörte die Kinder, in der Sonne zu spielen
erinnern sich Sie
ich sah die archangels in meinem Apfel-Baum gestern Abend
alle innen und alle ohne mich
in einem alten Raum beleuchtete weich
ich kann nicht seinem greatness immer glauben
traurige Rolle der gedämpften Trommel hat Schlag

 



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