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life poetry

Himmel, die sie waren, ashen und nüchtern
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
durch die ausgedehnten schmerzende Brust der Masse
ich ging auf und ab die Straßen
die Berge sind sie leise Völker
Farbtöne der Nacht fielen schnell
ich starrte den prachtvollen Himmel an
von Fußboden zu Decke
hängen Sie keinen Wreath

 



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