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spanish poem

er kam mich durch die Hand nehmen
vor tausend leisen Jahren
durch die rude Brücke
warum dann, Muß wir? sieht
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
der Geruch von stieg so falsch, die zutreffenden Dornen so
ich weiß nicht wo
babylon -- wo ich gehe zu träumen
meine Seele geht in den gorgeous Sachen plattiert

 



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