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alle jene Schätze, die liegen
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
in können Sie
Farbtöne der Nacht fielen schnell
wickeln Sie die Masse im bewölkten Wetter auf
häufig denke ich an die schöne Stadt
desolate und einsam
aus mir heraus unwürdig und unbekannt
Blüten der Babys
innerhalb meiner Hand halte ich
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden

 



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