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poetry poem

Himmel, die sie waren, ashen und nüchtern
letzter Mitternacht
es gibt kein Entweichen durch den Fluß
Farbtöne der Nacht fielen schnell
wölbte die Flut
unsere angenehmen Momente fliegen
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
für diese weißen Arme über meinen Ansatz
die Schwärzung
innerhalb meiner Hand halte ich

 



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