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thanksgiving poetry

er wird gegangen
aber alas, gerade Träume
ich sehe allen menschlichen Esprit
sehen Sie, von dieser Fälschung von ihm
ich verachte meine Freunde mehr als Sie
ich sterbe
lassen Sie uns Pity die, denen besser seien Sie weg von, als wir sind
die Sonne ist oben
ein Schimmer des Goldes in gloom und Grau

 



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