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poetry poem

ich brenne keinen Duft
dieses ist das Arsenal
vor langer Zeit im jungen Moonlight
Schlaf süß in Ihren humble Gräbern
das traurigste des Jahres
Geräusche, die sich bemühen heftig zu zerreißen
behold ich, in meinem chiffon, in Gaze und in Filterstreifen
ich hatte einen Traum und ich wachte mit ihm auf

 



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