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sad poem

mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
die Bögen der roten Brücke
wie ich innen roofed liege, innen aussortiert
Schlaf süß in Ihren humble Gräbern
wenn ein Brief fĂĽr Freiheit erfolgt ist
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
ich verachte meine Freunde mehr als Sie
ich liebe, eine Weile weg zu stehlen
dunkel-eyed
um Mitternacht
meine Seele geht in den gorgeous Sachen plattiert
wir waren nicht viele
während ich das Hören stand, diskret dumb

 



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