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grandmother poem

durch die rude Brücke
gloom
meine Mutter unterrichtete mich daß jede Nacht
die Schwärzung
lassen Sie hören
unter dem Helm des Warriors
in die Dunkelheit und Frieden meinem abschließenden Betts
das Licht zurückgenommen
die Masse hält etwas Erschütterungsgehen
ein kleiner Pfirsich im Obstgarten wuchs
grünes Nachmittagsserene und hell

 



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