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poem for pastors

alter Wein zum Trinken
gerade als meine Finger auf diesen Schlüsseln
Material des Mondes
winged Schatten, die vorbei fegen
ein Dichter, nachdem den Zaum seine Zunge entfernt habend
tat Sie hören überhaupt
eine Feder des Stahls
achtzig Jahre haben und mehr überschritten
von unseren versteckten Plätzen
sie können von der Liebe in einem Häuschen sprechen
durch die rude Brücke


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