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sorry poem

ich liebe mein Leben, aber nicht zu gut
fällt hier kein Licht
wenn, voll von der warmen und eifrigen Liebe
und noch gingen sie an
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
die Berge sind sie leise Völker
alle innen und alle ohne mich
herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais

 



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