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angel poem

von unseren versteckten Plätzen
ich verachte meine Freunde mehr als Sie
Sie sind schön und verblassen
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling
lassen Sie hören
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
ich habe das Rennen gewonnen

 



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