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son poem

ich sterbe
Material des Mondes
hören Sie den Regen?
ich bin alt und blind
sie in der Schwärzungsversammlung und bitten
hoch-getragenes Rennen
Nacht ist dunkel und die Winterwinde
sie hat einen freien Raum, Wind-geschĂĽtztes loveliness
die alten Songs
alle jene Schätze, die liegen
Vögel gegen den Aprilwind

 



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