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lyric poem

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
Himmel, die sie waren, ashen und nüchtern
dort durch das Fenster im alten Haus
Meister der menschlichen Schicksale sind ich
von Fußboden zu Decke
Sonne trat unten von seinem goldenen Throne
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
ich kann nicht seinem greatness immer glauben

 



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