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narrative poetry

ich brenne keinen Duft
seien Sie nicht mit mir verärgert
ich bete nicht für Frieden
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
sehen Sie, daß ich Ihnen mich gebe
nie in meinem ganzem Leben
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
und noch gingen sie an
hängen Sie keinen Wreath

 



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