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thanksgiving poem

in allen Sachen gesprochen nicht von
er wird gegangen
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
erklären Sie mir
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
unter dem Helm des Warriors
es gibt eine Stadt, builded durch keine Hand
ich erwarte Sie
warum
Tage endeared zu jedem MUSE
Gott

 



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