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suicide poem

neben einem geschlagenen Feld
über ihnen alle, unten schauend
letzter Mitternacht
meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
Vögel gegen den Aprilwind
für diese weißen Arme über meinen Ansatz
wie wie die Sterne dieses Weiß ist, namenlose Gesichter
achtzig Jahre haben und mehr überschritten
ein Schimmer des Goldes in gloom und Grau
was es die gesagten Maschinen war

 



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