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father poem

hatten er und i aber getroffen
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
unter dem Erntemond
war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
einmal dieser weiche Rasen
mittlere Vergnügen und Paläste, obwohl wir durchstreifen können
der Himmel
der Schnee whispers über mich
von der Sonne noch Sterne
für diese weißen Arme über meinen Ansatz

 



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