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suicide poem

irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
der Regen sein rüber und die leuchtende Luft
melancholische Tage sind gekommen
wenn ich sehr sicher war
ich brenne keinen Duft
wer den Regen liebt
sie kennt eine preiswerte Freigabe
ich hörte den Wind aller Tag
wenig Park, den ich durch führe
die Schwärzung rollt aufwärts
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
rückwärts drehen Sie sich rückwärts

 



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