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thanksgiving poem

fällt hier kein Licht
holen Sie mir weichen Song
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
er war ein hohes junges oysterman
ich habe daß eine bestimmte Prinzessin gehört
als weiße Kerze
Glück
war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
die Schatten der Schiffe
und mit dem Summenvogel
gegangen die drei, jene seltenen Schwestern
diese alte silberne Schüssel von meinen
die kleinen weißen Gebete
um Mitternacht

 



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