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happy birthday poem

mit den meek, braunen Augen
desolate und einsam
wenn die Stunden des Tages numeriert werden
auf und an
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
herrlich und schrecklich Ihre Liebe
einige windigere Tage
gloom
stern kalter Mann
so verloren
und während wir gingen, wurde das Gras schwach gerührt
ich bin der Wind, der wavers
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt

 



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