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lyric poetry

ich sterbe
der Geruch von stieg so falsch, die zutreffenden Dornen so
es gibt kein Entweichen durch den Fluß
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
und so geht sie
in seinem vorsichtigen Zelt
unter dem Erntemond
ich starrte den prachtvollen Himmel an
lassen Sie das reizende Wortunsaid

 



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