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mother poem

diese alte silberne Schüssel von meinen
gebildet vom loveliness alleine
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
sie war eine Schönheit an den Tagen
es ist zutreffend, daß Sie sagen, daß die Götter mehr Gebrauch zu Ihnen als Feen sind
Dame, Ihr Herz hat an Staub gewendet
ich bin der Wind, der wavers
machen Sie sich nicht um das unsichtbare Sorgen
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
ich loathed Sie
eine Meile nach
Glück
unsere angenehmen Momente fliegen

 



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