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thanksgiving poetry

gerade als meine Finger auf diesen Schlüsseln
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
Musik I hörte mit Ihnen war mehr als Musik
die Dämmerung war apfelgrün
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
und während wir gingen, wurde das Gras schwach gerührt
ich bilde meinen Abschirmrahmen, aber niemand weiß

 



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