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gothic poetry

fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
ich sehe allen menschlichen Esprit
mit dem Sonnenuntergang
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
bewiesen im Schimmer in Ihren Augen
wenn der rote Slayer denken, slays er

 



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