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suicide poem

einfach sprechend
mit den meek, braunen Augen
es gab drei in der Wiese durch den Bach
meine Seele ist ein dunkles gepflogenes Feld
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
der Duft kam
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben

 



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