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suicide poem

unnachgiebige Vergangenheit des thou
von Fußboden zu Decke
er kam mich durch die Hand nehmen
hoch-getragenes Rennen
ich mag es
hängen Sie keinen Wreath
wenn Nacht entlang den Straßen der Stadt treibt
singen Sie wieder dem Song Sie gesungen
weich weinend
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
ich ging auf und ab die Straßen
obwohl ich wenig als alle kleinen Sachen bin

 



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