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nature poem

die Luft ist von Dämmerung und Frühling voll
die auf das Oberseite sagen, daß sie Sie, Masse kennen -- sie sind Lügner
fällt hier kein Licht
folglich kann ich nicht
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
es gibt eine Stunde des ruhigen Restes
aus dem tiefen heraus und die Dunkelheit
unter dem Erntemond

 



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