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friend poem

Stadt, die nicht eine Stadt ist
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
die Dichter sagen
im Bereich
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter
ich habe die Welt geworfen
diese alte silberne Schüssel von meinen
Dame, Ihr Herz hat an Staub gewendet
innerhalb meiner Hand halte ich

 



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