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haiku poem

ihr schönes Haar
machen Sie sich nicht Sorgen, daß er rüber sein
ich kann nicht seinem greatness immer glauben
sehen Sie, von dieser Fälschung von ihm
hoch-getragenes Rennen
ein Himmel, der nie Sonne, Mond oder Sterne gekannt hat
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
die Wiese kroch

 



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