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type of poem

noch dreizehn Jahre
ich fülle diese Schale
Geräusche, die sich bemühen heftig zu zerreißen
es war der Herbst des Jahres
und während wir gingen, wurde das Gras schwach gerührt
wenn ich gekonnt hatte, Enge ein Gefängnis Liebe ist
so verloren
ein Dichter, nachdem den Zaum seine Zunge entfernt habend
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter

 



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