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writing poetry

herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais
wenn die Stunden des Tages numeriert werden
ich wuĂźte nie, daĂź die Masse soviel Gold hatte
Melancholie, Blau war sie
unter dem Helm des Warriors
dieses ist das Schiff der Perle
weich weinend
ich stand das geöffnete Flügelfenster bereit
da ich der Richtung des Todes geglaubt habe

 



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