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diese alte silberne Schüssel von meinen
in den mournful Zahlen
unter den Rauch und Nebel eines Dezembernachmittages
ich bin eine Frau
süsses splendor
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
ich denke sie gerades herrliches
tat Sie hören überhaupt
glooms der Lebeneichen
ich ging auf und ab die Straßen
die kleinen weißen Gebete

 



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