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mother poem

ich loathed Sie
in können Sie
seien Sie in mir als die ewigen Stimmungen
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
der Blitz blitzte und hob an
die Schwärzung rollt aufwärts
gute Frau
Musik I hörte mit Ihnen war mehr als Musik
drehen Sie mich unten durch die Wiese

 



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