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christian poetry

meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
als ich war, lief London ein
Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
ich mag es
ĂĽber ihnen alle, unten schauend
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
unter dusky Lorbeerblatt
irgendwo las ich eine merkwĂĽrdige, alte, rostige Geschichte

 



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