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family poetry

was es die gesagten Maschinen war
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
lassen Sie uns Pity die, denen besser seien Sie weg von, als wir sind
ein Himmel, der nie Sonne, Mond oder Sterne gekannt hat
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
ich sah ihn einmal vorher
gebildet vom loveliness alleine
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
wenn ich gekonnt hatte, Enge ein Gefängnis Liebe ist

 



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