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friend poetry

mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
er erklärt von den guten alten Zeiten
ich erwarte Sie
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
liegt hier eine schönste Dame
Blüten der Babys
meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
die Schwärzung stiehlt die Formen aller Königinnen
Ruhe als die zweiter Sommer

 



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