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poem for dad

mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
auf und ab geht ihn
sie fragen mich, wo ich gewesen bin
ich sah die erste Birne
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-FaĂźraum
in Ihrem Flug
der Blitz blitzte und hob an
ich bete nicht fĂĽr Frieden

 



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