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epic poetry

mit Freude und Wunder
unter dem Erntemond
durch die rude BrĂĽcke
ich loathed Sie
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
wenn ich sterbe, denken Sie nur dieses an mich
aller Tag zum Aufpassen der blauen Welle sich zu kräuseln und zu brechen
unter dem Helm des Warriors
irgendwo las ich eine merkwĂĽrdige, alte, rostige Geschichte

 



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