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son poem

ich sah die erste Birne
der Regen sein rüber und die leuchtende Luft
aber alas, gerade Träume
die Lattentagesdrowses auf dem westlichen durchtränken
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
um Mitternacht
wenn ihr Haar wild flaying
wir, die standen
in den mournful Zahlen

 



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