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baby poem

Sie sagen, daß Sie mich lieben
über ihnen alle, unten schauend
gibt es jedes dort
bleiben Sie nicht mehr
wer den Regen liebt
wenn ich zurück zu Masse gehe
das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
plötzlich aus den dunklen und belaubten Weisen heraus
gute Frau

 



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