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poetry poem

hören Sie zum klingenden Meer
glänzt das letzte Alter, das folgende mit Hoffnung wird gesehen
schön
ich loathed Sie
die hypocritic Tage
drehen Sie mich unten durch die Wiese
wenn Nacht entlang den Straßen der Stadt treibt
so verloren
ich brenne keinen Duft
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
könnten wir aber zu wissen

 



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