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erotic poem

hängen Sie keinen Wreath
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
dieses ist der Song von Jugend
ein Schimmer des Goldes in gloom und Grau
die Berge sind sie leise Völker
sie in der Schwärzungsversammlung und bitten
wer den Wind nennen wird

 



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