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brother poem

wenn ihr Haar wild flaying
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
und breakethbrot nicht mehr
die Schiffe liegen in der Bucht
der Geruch von stieg so falsch, die zutreffenden Dornen so
Sonne und Wind und Schlag von Meer
traurig sprechend
ich habe den Silence der Sterne und des Meeres gekannt
ich bin der Wind, der wavers
Melancholie, Blau war sie

 



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