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footprint poem

wir, die standen
Geräusche, die sich bemühen heftig zu zerreißen
Stadt, die nicht eine Stadt ist
ein Leben auf der Ozeanwelle
sie muß zurück gehen, sagte sie
meine Seele ist ein dunkles gepflogenes Feld
alle innen und alle ohne mich
im Hafen neuen Yorks
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt

 



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