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christian poem

häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
sind Sie wach?
Ruhe als die zweiter Sommer
der alte Westen, die alte Zeit
schreckliche Wahrheiten diese sind
behold ich, in meinem chiffon, in Gaze und in Filterstreifen
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
unter dem Erntemond


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