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funeral poem

ich stand
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter
zu einigem die fetten Götter
ich liebe mein Leben, aber nicht zu gut
die Sonne ist oben
desolate und einsam
wenn ich gekonnt hatte, Enge ein Gefängnis Liebe ist
meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
für diese weißen Arme über meinen Ansatz
zwei Reihen der Kohlpflanzen
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
ein dünner grauer Schatten auf dem Rand des Gedankens

 



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