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sorry poem

er wird gegangen
Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
jene schwarzen Augen I einmal so gepriesen
der Schnee whispers über mich
hoch-getragenes Rennen
umsponnen und gesponnen
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling
seien Sie nicht mit mir verärgert
rückwärts drehen Sie sich rückwärts
sie können von der Liebe in einem Häuschen sprechen
und breakethbrot nicht mehr
ein dünner grauer Schatten auf dem Rand des Gedankens
holen Sie mir weichen Song

 



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