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mother poem

winged Schatten, die vorbei fegen
herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
ich sah ihn einmal vorher
mit den meek, braunen Augen
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter
es gibt ein, das dieses i einmal so sehr liebte
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
die alten Songs
von Fußboden zu Decke
ich weiß, was Sie sagen werden


 



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