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love friendship poem

Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
die Schiffe liegen in der Bucht
Moonlight tief und zart
es gab drei in der Wiese durch den Bach
wenig Gatter wurde schließlich erreicht
singen Sie wieder dem Song Sie gesungen
unter dem Erntemond

 



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