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thank you poem

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
geschaukelt in die Aufnahmevorrichtung vom tiefen
jene schwarzen Augen I einmal so gepriesen
da ich der Richtung des Todes geglaubt habe
wickeln Sie die Masse im bewölkten Wetter auf
über dem Fluß auf dem Hügel
folglich kann ich nicht
Nacht war schwarz und drear

 



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