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fall poem

mit den meek, braunen Augen
einige der Hurts, die Sie kuriert haben
rühren Sie sich
warum dann, Muß wir? sieht
über ihnen alle, unten schauend
könnten wir aber zu wissen
geben Sie mich
der alte Westen, die alte Zeit
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
wenn die Stunden des Tages numeriert werden
über den Dachspitzen laufen Sie die Schatten der Wolken
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht

 



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