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sorry poem

mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
während ich das Hören stand, diskret dumb
aus dem Fenster heraus ein Meer der grünen Bäume
in einem alten Raum beleuchtete weich
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
zum leidenschaftlichen Geliebten
und noch gingen sie an
ein kleiner Pfirsich im Obstgarten wuchs
hatten er und i aber getroffen
es gibt eine Stadt, builded durch keine Hand
Massentravails
bewiesen im Schimmer in Ihren Augen

 



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