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poem for pastors

gestiegen von den Toten
lassen Sie nicht hören
ein Fliegenwort von hier und dort
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
jenseits schauen
der Schnee whispers über mich
diese alte silberne Schüssel von meinen
dieses ist der Song von Jugend
der Körper kann begrenzen
es gibt eine Stunde des ruhigen Restes
gloom
das traurigste des Jahres

 



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