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funeral poem

es gibt Gewinne für alle unsere Verluste
gelebt durch den River-side
fällt hier kein Licht
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
unter dem Erntemond
ca. beschwerte sich zum Meister
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
ich liebe meine Stunde des Winds und des Lichtes
ich liebe, eine Weile weg zu stehlen
Bruder, bin ich Feuer

 



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