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thanksgiving poem

denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
ich liebe mein Leben, aber nicht zu gut
Himmel, die sie waren, ashen und nüchtern
ich singe Ihnen
obwohl Lieberepine und Grundscheuern
rühren Sie sich
sie hörte die Kinder, in der Sonne zu spielen
ich sah die erste Birne
ihr schönes Haar
in können Sie
wölbte die Flut

 



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