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poetry book

gaily durch die Felder tanzten wir
eine Meile nach
welches hält
ich sah, daß Gott Sie es? bezweifeln
rühren Sie sich
meine zutreffende Liebe von ihrem Kissen stieg
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
Gott
er wird gegangen

 



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