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romantic poem

desolate und einsam
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
mit Freude und Wunder
achtzig Jahre haben und mehr überschritten
wenn ihr Haar wild flaying
gerade als meine Finger auf diesen Schlüsseln
lassen Sie hören
sehen Sie, daß ich Ihnen mich gebe
ich weiß, was Sie sagen werden
ich kann nicht seinem greatness immer glauben

 



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