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acrostic poem

wölbte die Flut
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
ich bin alt und blind
süsses splendor
einige der Hurts, die Sie kuriert haben
sehen Sie, sie zurückgehen
wie das Glätten fällt
noch schaukelt ihr Grau Aufsatz über das Meer
unsere angenehmen Momente fliegen
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein

 



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