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retirement poem

gerade als meine Finger auf diesen Schlüsseln
der Regen sein rüber und die leuchtende Luft
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
sie können von der Liebe in einem Häuschen sprechen
zwei Reihen der Kohlpflanzen
einfach sprechend
grünes Nachmittagsserene und hell
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