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thanksgiving poetry

gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
stieg und Bernstein war der Sonnenuntergang auf dem Fluß
ich liebe die alten melodious Lagen
um so bald zu diesem zu kommen stellte sich Dunkelheit vor
ich sehe allen menschlichen Esprit
achtzig Jahre haben und mehr überschritten
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
eins nach dem anderen wie verläßt von einem Baum
hoch-getragenes Rennen
süsses splendor

 



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