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urdu poetry

Nacht war schwarz und drear
ich sterbe
Kerzen, die seitlich in den Tomatedosen stürzen
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
tat Sie hören überhaupt
der Geruch von stieg so falsch, die zutreffenden Dornen so
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte

 



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