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sie fragen mich, wo ich gewesen bin
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
unter dem Erntemond
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich
als es
wer den Wind nennen wird
ich sah, daß Gott Sie es? bezweifeln
ca. beschwerte sich zum Meister
ich fülle diese Schale
gibt es jedes dort
wie wild, wie Hexe-wie sonderbares, das das Leben sein sollte
Nacht war schwarz und drear

 



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