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grandmother poem

alle jene Schätze, die liegen
ich brenne keinen Duft
die Dämmerung war apfelgrün
der Geruch von stieg so falsch, die zutreffenden Dornen so
Massentravails
sie limps mit dem Anhalten des schmerzlichen Schrittes
sehen Sie, daß ich Ihnen mich gebe

 



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