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death poetry

meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
sehen Sie, von dieser Fälschung von ihm
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich
traurig sprechend
ihr schönes Haar
ich brenne keinen Duft
ich sah die archangels in meinem Apfel-Baum gestern Abend
und mein Name ist truthful
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
blau-schwarze nubian zupfende Orangen
einige windigere Tage

 



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