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child poem

Glück
die alten Songs
schön
sind Sie wach?
drehen Sie mich unten durch die Wiese
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
mit dem Sonnenuntergang
Material des Mondes
möglicherweise ist es gleichgültig, das Sie starben
die Wiese kroch
tat Sie hören überhaupt
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
weich weinend

 



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