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ich weiß, was Sie sagen werden
seien Sie nicht mit mir verärgert
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
liegt hier eine schönste Dame
wenn ich sterbe, denken Sie nur dieses an mich
Stern-Staub und vaporous Licht
grünes Nachmittagsserene und hell
ein dünner grauer Schatten auf dem Rand des Gedankens

 



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