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child poetry

obwohl ich wenig als alle kleinen Sachen bin
so verloren
hängen Sie keinen Wreath
das Emporheben, als der Wind brannte durch
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
wer den Wind nennen wird
niedrig! ' tis ein Galanacht
weich jetzt das Licht des Tages

 



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