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prose poetry

Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
wenn Freiheit von ihrer Gebirgshöhe
wenn der rote Slayer denken, slays er
lassen Sie mich durch die Straße langsam bewegen
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling
grünes Nachmittagsserene und hell
Gedanken durch meinen Kopf
sind Sie wach?

 



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