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teacher poem

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
sie limps mit dem Anhalten des schmerzlichen Schrittes
unter den Rauch und Nebel eines Dezembernachmittages
Massentravails
ich sah, daß Sie und shivering auf den Steinen hunched
es gab eine Zeit in den ehemaligen Jahren
während ich das Hören stand, diskret dumb
wenn ich sterbe, denken Sie nur dieses an mich

 



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