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sister poem

hören Sie zum klingenden Meer
Stadt, die nicht eine Stadt ist
ich stand das geöffnete Flügelfenster bereit
es war der Herbst des Jahres
als ich in Ihre Augen schaute
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins
wenig Park, den ich durch führe
melancholische Tage sind gekommen
gegangen die drei, jene seltenen Schwestern
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens

 



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