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writing poetry

meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
ich wußte nie, daß die Masse soviel Gold hatte
hängen Sie keinen Wreath
unter dem Helm des Warriors
stieg und Bernstein war der Sonnenuntergang auf dem Fluß
ruhig mit reverance, im Awe


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