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thanksgiving poetry

mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
vor drei Jahren heute
ca. beschwerte sich zum Meister
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
schöne, tragical Gesichter
ich bildete ein Versprechen einmal, eins nur
haben Sie gesehenes Gehen durch das Dorf
nicht von der breiten Welt des Ganzen
er spricht nicht gut

 



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