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suicide poem

obwohl ich wenig als alle kleinen Sachen bin
ich wundere manchmal, mich wenn es wirklich zutreffend ist
weich als das Bett in der Masse
was wir jetzt tut
die einzelne zusammengeprgessene angehobene Faust und bereiten vor
winged Schatten, die vorbei fegen
in können Sie
sie muĂź zurĂĽck gehen, sagte sie
er erklärt von den guten alten Zeiten
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins
wenig Gatter wurde schlieĂźlich erreicht
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
das Swanbestehen

 



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