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poetry in motion

unter den Bergen wandered ich
ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
aus dem funkelnden Meer heraus
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
alle werfen die Jahre nieder
mit Freude und Wunder
haben wir keine Schande?
unter meinem Fenster in einer Stadtstraße
wer der Läufer in den Himmeln ist
desolate und einsam
ich sterbe
gestiegen von den Toten

 



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