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sympathy poem

es gab drei in der Wiese durch den Bach
herrlich und schrecklich Ihre Liebe
Vögel gegen den Aprilwind
wenn ich sterbe, denken Sie nur dieses an mich
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
während ich das Hören stand, diskret dumb
mit den meek, braunen Augen

 



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