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death poem

wenn es
die Dichter sagen
unter dem Erntemond
alle werfen die Jahre nieder
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
die Qual des Habens zu vieler Energie
war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
schreckliche Wahrheiten diese sind
vor er war viele und viel einem Jahr
auf und an

 



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