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death poem

ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
in den Hallen des Schlafes wandered Sie vorbei
wenn ihr Haar wild flaying
weich als das Bett in der Masse
ich liebe mein Leben, aber nicht zu gut
so gefallen
hohe Wände und sehr groß
ein Himmel, der nie Sonne, Mond oder Sterne gekannt hat
meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
die alten Songs

 



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