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lost love poem

hoch-getragenes Rennen
gaily durch die Felder tanzten wir
stieg und Bernstein war der Sonnenuntergang auf dem Fluß
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
wer den Wind nennen wird
so gefallen
Sie sagen, daß Sie mich lieben
und während wir gingen, wurde das Gras schwach gerührt
ich sah ihn einmal vorher
im Hafen neuen Yorks
lassen Sie mich traurig sein

 



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