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erotic poem

alle jene Schätze, die liegen
süsses splendor
lieben Sie mich schließlich oder, wenn Sie nicht werden
Sie sind schön und verblassen
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
und breakethbrot nicht mehr
läßt lang das Sommertageslicht glänzen
innerhalb meiner Hand halte ich

 



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