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mom poem

Blüten der Babys
und breakethbrot nicht mehr
die Schatten der Schiffe
die Dichter sagen
jene schwarzen Augen I einmal so gepriesen
so verloren
ich weiß nicht wo
da ich der Richtung des Todes geglaubt habe
aus mir heraus unwürdig und unbekannt
obwohl ich wenig als alle kleinen Sachen bin
mit den meek, braunen Augen
wie das Glätten fällt

 



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