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funeral poem

ich stand das geöffnete Flügelfenster bereit
meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
ein Schimmer des Goldes in gloom und Grau
durch die rude Brücke
er kam mich durch die Hand nehmen
ich liege am Tabellenberg
weich weinend
rühren Sie sich
und so geht sie
neben einem geschlagenen Feld
geheimnisvolle Nacht
gerade als meine Finger auf diesen Schlüsseln
wir waren nicht viele
wenn ich gekonnt hatte, Enge ein Gefängnis Liebe ist


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