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sad poem

Stadt, die nicht eine Stadt ist
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
singen Sie wieder dem Song Sie gesungen
burly, DösenHumblebiene
truely
weich als das Bett in der Masse
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
in die Dunkelheit und Frieden meinem abschließenden Betts
ich bin der Wind, der wavers
ich liege am Tabellenberg
Töchter der Zeit
obwohl ich wenig als alle kleinen Sachen bin

 



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