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child poetry

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
was ich Ihnen verdanken
desolate und einsam
es gab drei in der Wiese durch den Bach
Dame, Ihr Herz hat an Staub gewendet
Tochter, thoukunst kommen zu sterben
ein Himmel, der nie Sonne, Mond oder Sterne gekannt hat
ich denke sie gerades herrliches
wer den Wind nennen wird
herauf von den Süden am Bruch des Tages
alter Wein zum Trinken
in den mournful Zahlen

 



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