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short poem

ich loathed Sie
ich muß sagen gute Nacht
lassen Sie uns Pity die, denen besser seien Sie weg von, als wir sind
Himmel, die sie waren, ashen und nüchtern
traurig sprechend
hoch-getragenes Rennen
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling
in den Wolke-grauen Morgen
wickeln Sie die Masse im bewölkten Wetter auf
vor drei Jahren heute
Blüten der Babys
welches ich erwähnen möchte
ich war eine Göttin, ere der Marmor mich fand

 



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