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short poem

gebildet vom loveliness alleine
Schlaf süß in Ihren humble Gräbern
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
gerade als meine Finger auf diesen Schlüsseln
bis zu ihrem Raumfenster
dort durch das Fenster im alten Haus
fällt hier kein Licht
ein Sturm fährt auf den Tide

 



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