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prose poetry

wenn ich sterbe, denken Sie nur dieses an mich
auf und ab geht ihn
Sonne trat unten von seinem goldenen Throne
aus dem Fenster heraus ein Meer der grünen Bäume
ich sagte, ich habe geschlossen mein Herz
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden
sie fragen mich, wo ich gewesen bin

 



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