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thanksgiving poetry

ich sah, daß Sie und shivering auf den Steinen hunched
wölbte die Flut
was es die gesagten Maschinen war
die hypocritic Tage
ich hörte den Wind aller Tag
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
verbessern Sie als Granit
machen Sie sich nicht um das unsichtbare Sorgen
vor drei Jahren heute


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