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seien Sie nicht falsch
zu einigem die fetten Gtter
ich habe sie in der Nacht gehrt
in den Hallen des Schlafes wandered Sie vorbei
wenn der Schleier von den Augen angehoben wird
ich bin fevered
im September
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
Sie sind schn und verblassen
wenn ich sterbe, denken Sie nur dieses an mich
Schlaf s in Ihren humble Grbern

 



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