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thanksgiving poetry

geschaukelt in die Aufnahmevorrichtung vom tiefen
hören Sie den Regen?
Meister der menschlichen Schicksale sind ich
ich brenne keinen Duft
ich starrte den prachtvollen Himmel an
es gab ein strangeness auf Ihren Lippen
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich
herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais
Tochter, thoukunst kommen zu sterben
wir, die standen
von Fußboden zu Decke
für dann außen

 



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