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thanksgiving poem

traurige Rolle der gedämpften Trommel hat Schlag
die Dämmerung war apfelgrün
die Schwärzung rollt aufwärts
ich bin in das Ödland gekommen, weil meine Seele athirst ist
sie fragen mich, wo ich gewesen bin
als es
Schlaf süß in Ihren humble Gräbern
wer der Läufer in den Himmeln ist
pharaoh, König von Land Ägyptens
in seinem vorsichtigen Zelt
hohe Wände und sehr groß


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