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math poem

ich liebe, eine Weile weg zu stehlen
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling
seien Sie nicht falsch
Blüten der Babys
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden
sehen Sie, sie zurückgehen
Massentravails

 



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