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autumn poetry

ich loathed Sie
an der Dämmerung sagte er
warum so traurig mein reizendes?
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
was spiteful Wahrscheinlichkeit unawares stiehlt
meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
es gibt eine Stunde des ruhigen Restes
wenn ich sehr sicher war

 



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