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sad poem

Massentravails
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
wenn der rote Slayer denken, slays er
machen Sie sich nicht Sorgen, daß er rüber sein
Töchter der Zeit
sind Sie wach?
ein Fliegenwort von hier und dort
gestern Abend legte der Vollmond ein Tuch von Weiß
ein Dichter, nachdem den Zaum seine Zunge entfernt habend

 



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