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mother poem

häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
tun Sie die Jungen und Mädchen gehen noch
wer den Regen liebt
mit den meek, braunen Augen
Tochter, thoukunst kommen zu sterben
unter dem Erntemond
ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
aber alas, gerade Träume
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
diese Herzen wurden von den menschlichen Freuden und Obacht gesponnen
Hinausschieben, vainly kämpfend
Schatten legen entlang broadway
wenn ich zurück zu Masse gehe

 



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