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retirement poem

rühren Sie sich
Ruhe als die zweiter Sommer
Gott
für diese weißen Arme über meinen Ansatz
ich bin alt und blind
Bruder, bin ich Feuer
von der Sonne noch Sterne
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
auf und ab geht ihn
dieses ist das Arsenal

 



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