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love poem

wer den Wind nennen wird
ich sterbe
Sturm
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
er erklärt von den guten alten Zeiten
um Mitternacht
wenn es
die Dichter sagen
meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
Sie sind frei

 



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