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poetry poem

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
rühren Sie sich
wenn ein Brief für Freiheit erfolgt ist
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden
vor er war viele und viel einem Jahr
machen Sie sich nicht Sorgen, daß er rüber sein
wir, die standen
wenn Nacht entlang den Straßen der Stadt treibt
erklären Sie mir
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
die hypocritic Tage


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