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poetry poem

meine Mutter twines mich die Roses, die mit Tau naß sind
herauf von den Süden am Bruch des Tages
einige der Hurts, die Sie kuriert haben
das traurigste des Jahres
dieses ist der Song von Jugend
da ich der Richtung des Todes geglaubt habe
das endlose, dumme merriment der Sterne
in einem alten Raum beleuchtete weich
hören Sie

 



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