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sad death poem

ein Sturm fährt auf den Tide
das kleine mitfĂĽhlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
blau-schwarze nubian zupfende Orangen
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daĂź jede Nacht
auf und ab geht ihn
erneuern Sie den Anblick der Freude
meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
ich kann nicht seinem greatness immer glauben
es gibt eine Stunde des ruhigen Restes

 



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