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memorial poem

Dame, Ihr Herz hat an Staub gewendet
hoch-getragenes Rennen
es ist zutreffend, daß Sie sagen, daß die Götter mehr Gebrauch zu Ihnen als Feen sind
zweifellos erinnere mich ich noch
das Emporheben, als der Wind brannte durch
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
plötzlich aus den dunklen und belaubten Weisen heraus

 



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