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death poetry

sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
vor er war viele und viel einem Jahr
drehen Sie mich unten durch die Wiese
grünes Nachmittagsserene und hell
Frau vermißte viel, wie Sie zu mir benennen, Anruf zu mir
ca. beschwerte sich zum Meister
für dann außen
ich bin eine Frau

 



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