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sorry poem

die Berge sind sie leise Völker
lassen Sie uns Pity die, denen besser seien Sie weg von, als wir sind
der Geruch von stieg so falsch, die zutreffenden Dornen so
für Wahrheit für Liebe
dort durch das Fenster im alten Haus
ich bilde meinen Abschirmrahmen, aber niemand weiß
ich fülle diese Schale
herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais

 



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