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death poem

sind Sie wach?
wickeln Sie die Masse im bewölkten Wetter auf
die Luft ist von Dämmerung und Frühling voll
tun Sie die Jungen und Mädchen gehen noch
ich bilde meinen Abschirmrahmen, aber niemand weiß
die Sonne ist oben
entlang den Bänken
folglich kann ich nicht
voll von den Rissen
meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind

 



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