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sad poem

einmal dieser weiche Rasen
das traurigste des Jahres
machen Sie sich nicht Sorgen, daß er rüber sein
sehen Sie, sie zurückgehen
unter dem Erntemond
alle jene Schätze, die liegen
Geräusche, die sich bemühen heftig zu zerreißen
der alte Westen, die alte Zeit
dieses ist der Song von Jugend

 



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