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modern poetry

ein Sturm fährt auf den Tide
wenn Freiheit von ihrer Gebirgshöhe
lassen Sie nicht hören
was es die gesagten Maschinen war
der Himmel
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
ich hörte den Wind aller Tag
ein Himmel, der nie Sonne, Mond oder Sterne gekannt hat
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich

 



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