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poem for pastors

jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
meine Seele geht in den gorgeous Sachen plattiert
ich habe eine Furcht in meinem Leben gehabt
durch die rude Brücke
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
warum
und während wir gingen, wurde das Gras schwach gerührt
meine Seele ist ein dunkles gepflogenes Feld
ein Schimmer des Goldes in gloom und Grau

 



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