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die langen resounding Marmorflure
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
der Schnee whispers über mich
mit dem Sonnenuntergang
unter dem Helm des Warriors
die Schwärzung rollt aufwärts
neben es gab nie einen Ton das Holz aber eins
ich wundere mich, wo Sie leben
neben einem geschlagenen Feld
ein Sturm fährt auf den Tide

 



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