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friend poetry

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
wie wie die Sterne dieses Weiß ist, namenlose Gesichter
ich habe daß eine bestimmte Prinzessin gehört
ein Blick ist aber ein Strahl
voll von den Rissen
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
das Emporheben, als der Wind brannte durch
die Qual des Habens zu vieler Energie

 



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