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fall poem

Schlaf süß in Ihren humble Gräbern
blau-schwarze nubian zupfende Orangen
ein Sturm fährt auf den Tide
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
ich sah mit geöffneten Augen
meine Seele ist ein dunkles gepflogenes Feld
gute Frau
diese sind
durch die rude Brücke
auf und an
wenn ich zurück zu Masse gehe
ich wundere mich, wo Sie leben
Sie sagen, daß Sie mich lieben
ich gehe meine Weise complacently

 



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