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child poetry

er spricht nicht gut
Roses und Gold
herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais
meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
zwischen den musing Sonnenuntergang und die Dunkelheit
unter dusky Lorbeerblatt
holen Sie mir weichen Song
weiße Schaumgummiblume, rote Flammeblume
gaily durch die Felder tanzten wir

 



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