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footprint poem

bleiben Sie nicht mehr
neben einem geschlagenen Feld
Sonne trat unten von seinem goldenen Throne
als es
das endlose, dumme merriment der Sterne
jenseits schauen
allein
die einzelne zusammengeprgessene angehobene Faust und bereiten vor
wenn ihr Haar wild flaying
ich brenne keinen Duft
Schlaf süß in Ihren humble Gräbern
stern kalter Mann

 



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