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life poem

häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
Roses und Gold
kein Opfer sind ich der schlechten Gedanken
und so geht sie
ich brenne keinen Duft
für war mich ein gaunt, ernstes Ratsmitglied
unter dem Erntemond
jene schwarzen Augen I einmal so gepriesen
Bonbon mit Farn und stieg

 



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