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type of poem

sie sprengte fierce Wein
neben einem geschlagenen Feld
es gibt ein, das dieses i einmal so sehr liebte
an der Dämmerung sagte er
letzter Mitternacht
Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
sie war eine Schönheit an den Tagen
ich erwarte Sie
da ich der Richtung des Todes geglaubt habe

 



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