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thanksgiving poem

die kleinen weißen Gebete
er erklärt von den guten alten Zeiten
Melancholie, Blau war sie
in seinem vorsichtigen Zelt
sind Sie wach?
drei Tage hörte ich sie, sich Sorgen zu machen, wann ich absolut lege
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins

 



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