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sad poem

die Qual des Habens zu vieler Energie
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
in ihren zackigen regimentals
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
ich habe daß eine bestimmte Prinzessin gehört
so verloren
die Berge sind sie leise Völker

 



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