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son poem

weiße Schaumgummiblume, rote Flammeblume
meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
aus dem funkelnden Meer heraus
entlang einem River-side
es war der Herbst des Jahres
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
bleiben Sie nicht mehr
nicht von der breiten Welt des Ganzen
durch die ausgedehnten schmerzende Brust der Masse
während ich das Hören stand, diskret dumb
seien Sie in mir als die ewigen Stimmungen

 



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