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birthday poem

fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
ich mag es
allein
bewiesen im Schimmer in Ihren Augen
Sturm
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
ich sagte, ich habe geschlossen mein Herz
das Emporheben, als der Wind brannte durch
in allen Sachen gesprochen nicht von

 



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