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ich verachte meine Freunde mehr als Sie
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
bewiesen im Schimmer in Ihren Augen
wir waren nicht viele
wie wie die Sterne dieses Weiß ist, namenlose Gesichter
ich habe sie in der Nacht gehört
gestiegen von den Toten
sehen Sie, daß ich Ihnen mich gebe
das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter

 



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