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death poem

meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
es war der Herbst des Jahres
ich sterbe
unter dusky Lorbeerblatt
und wie Sie Traum der Sitzung konnten
folglich kann ich nicht
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
ich brenne keinen Duft
wenn es
ein Dichter, nachdem den Zaum seine Zunge entfernt habend
alle innen und alle ohne mich
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling


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