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thanksgiving poetry

gerade jetzt
dort durch das Fenster im alten Haus
weich weinend
Glück
unter dem Erntemond
er spricht nicht gut
hängen Sie keinen Wreath
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
ich habe sie in der Nacht gehört
geschaukelt in die Aufnahmevorrichtung vom tiefen

 



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