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type of poem

haben Sie gesehenes Gehen durch das Dorf
und so geht sie
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
liegt hier eine schönste Dame
die Sonne ist oben
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
der Schnee whispers ĂĽber mich
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
achtzig Jahre haben und mehr ĂĽberschritten
ich brenne keinen Duft

 



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