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kid poem

die alten Songs
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
Kurzschluß und süsses und wir sind zum Ende von ihm gekommen
geben Sie mich
traurig sprechend
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
Frau vermißte viel, wie Sie zu mir benennen, Anruf zu mir
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
durch das Ufer durch das Meer

 



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