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short poem

warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
im Bereich
als es
ich liebe, eine Weile weg zu stehlen
ein Blick ist aber ein Strahl
diese alte silberne Schüssel von meinen
das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
wie ein blanker Mann ich gehen
Vögel gegen den Aprilwind
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
unter den Bergen wandered ich

 



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