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brother poem

unter den Rauch und Nebel eines Dezembernachmittages
an der Dämmerung sagte er
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
gestiegen von den Toten
rĂĽhren Sie sich
weich als das Bett in der Masse
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
innerhalb meiner Hand halte ich

 



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