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anniversary poetry

sie können von der Liebe in einem Häuschen sprechen
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich
Bewegung Ihres Körpers ist wie Musik
sehen Sie, sie zurückgehen
wickeln Sie die Masse im bewölkten Wetter auf
gerade als meine Finger auf diesen Schlüsseln
ich bin der Wind, der wavers
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
wenn Freiheit von ihrer Gebirgshöhe

 



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