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religious poem

sie fragen mich, wo ich gewesen bin
Glück
die alten Songs
die Masse hält etwas Erschütterungsgehen
die einzelne zusammengeprgessene angehobene Faust und bereiten vor
der Schnee whispers über mich
weich weinend
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter
ich sah die erste Birne
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben

 



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