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lyric poem

Sonne trat unten von seinem goldenen Throne
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
Stadt, die nicht eine Stadt ist
weich jetzt das Licht des Tages
die Masse hält etwas Erschütterungsgehen
der Schnee whispers über mich
in allen Sachen gesprochen nicht von
melancholische Tage sind gekommen
schön

 



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