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family poem

wir legen
der Himmel
weich als das Bett in der Masse
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
jetzt fĂĽr einen lebhaften und freundlichen Kampf
Vögel gegen den Aprilwind
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
wer der Läufer in den Himmeln ist
ich denke sie gerades herrliches

 



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