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romantic poetry

sie hörte die Kinder, in der Sonne zu spielen
der Blitz blitzte und hob an
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
gegangen die drei, jene seltenen Schwestern
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
unter den Bergen wandered ich
der Regen sein rüber und die leuchtende Luft
Dame, Ihr Herz hat an Staub gewendet
er wird gegangen
schöne, tragical Gesichter


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