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autumn poetry

warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
unter dem Erntemond
in den mournful Zahlen
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
Welt, die unter meiner Hand ändert
Sonne trat unten von seinem goldenen Throne
der Duft kam
ich sagte, ich habe geschlossen mein Herz
obwohl ich wenig als alle kleinen Sachen bin
diese sind
mit den meek, braunen Augen
ist häufig er nicht so?


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