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grandmother poem

welches ich erwähnen möchte
Roses und Gold
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
wer der Läufer in den Himmeln ist
in den mournful Zahlen
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
ich fülle diese Schale
die Bögen der roten Brücke
es gibt eine Stadt, builded durch keine Hand
als ich am Sonnenuntergang zurückkam
einmal dieser weiche Rasen

 



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