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death poem

die Bögen der roten Brücke
wer den Wind nennen wird
wenn Freiheit von ihrer Gebirgshöhe
ca. beschwerte sich zum Meister
und mein Name ist truthful
niedrig! ' tis ein Galanacht
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
im Hafen neuen Yorks
lassen Sie hören
wölbte die Flut

 



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