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mother poem

das traurigste des Jahres
wo ich sollen Sie, finden Sie Sie
wer den Regen liebt
entlang den Bänken
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
über ihnen alle, unten schauend
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
über den Dachspitzen laufen Sie die Schatten der Wolken
innerhalb dieses niedrigen Grabs liegt ein conqueror
meine zutreffende Liebe von ihrem Kissen stieg

 



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