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thanksgiving poem

rühren Sie sich
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
tun Sie die Jungen und Mädchen gehen noch
in allen Sachen gesprochen nicht von
ich mag es
ich brenne keinen Duft
ich bilde meinen Abschirmrahmen, aber niemand weiß
aller Tag zum Aufpassen der blauen Welle sich zu kräuseln und zu brechen
erklären Sie mir
wir legen

 



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