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teen poems

ich bete nicht für Frieden
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
alter Wein zum Trinken
unter dem Erntemond
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
jene schwarzen Augen I einmal so gepriesen
ich liebe mein Leben, aber nicht zu gut
über den Dachspitzen laufen Sie die Schatten der Wolken
weich als das Bett in der Masse
ich liebe die alten melodious Lagen
Gott

 



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