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thanksgiving poem

alle innen und alle ohne mich
tun Sie die Jungen und Mädchen gehen noch
unter dem Erntemond
sind Sie wach?
sie sprengte fierce Wein
es gibt eine Stadt, builded durch keine Hand
wir, die standen
möglicherweise
traurig sprechend
wenig Park, den ich durch führe
fällt hier kein Licht
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte

 



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