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nature poem

ich bin der Wind, der wavers
in Ihrem Flug
Sie sind schön und verblassen
diese alte silberne Schüssel von meinen
Schlaf süß in Ihren humble Gräbern
die auf das Oberseite sagen, daß sie Sie, Masse kennen -- sie sind Lügner
truely
auf und ab geht ihn
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins

 



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