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missing you poem

meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
unter dem Erntemond
das traurigste des Jahres
warum dann, Muß wir? sieht
hatten er und i aber getroffen
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling
hören Sie zum klingenden Meer
einmal dieser weiche Rasen
dieses ist das Arsenal
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge

 



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