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mother poem

ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
geben Sie mir Hunger
war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
bewiesen im Schimmer in Ihren Augen
sie sagte
jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
es gibt ein Land voll des Weins
umsponnen und gesponnen
sie sprengte fierce Wein
ich ging auf und ab die Straßen
erneuern Sie den Anblick der Freude
möglicherweise ist es gleichgültig, das Sie starben
so verloren
in allen Sachen gesprochen nicht von

 



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