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daughter poem

hängen Sie keinen Wreath
vor tausend leisen Jahren
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
in können Sie
Welt, die unter meiner Hand ändert
gloom
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins
Glasbläser der Zeit
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
noch schaukelt ihr Grau Aufsatz über das Meer

 



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