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death poem

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
und breakethbrot nicht mehr
geben Sie mir Hunger
haben Sie gesehenes Gehen durch das Dorf
liegt hier eine schönste Dame
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
seien Sie, Leben geduldig, wenn Liebe am Gatter ist
ich sah, daß Sie und shivering auf den Steinen hunched
vor langer Zeit im jungen Moonlight
Glück
Moonlight tief und zart
weich weinend
auf und an
was es die gesagten Maschinen war

 



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