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poem

ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
geben Sie mir Hunger
gestiegen von den Toten
ich liebte eine Frau
er kam mich durch die Hand nehmen
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
die Sterne fielen vom Himmel

 



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