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death poetry

jetzt, während meine Lippen leben
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
warum so traurig mein reizendes?
dieses ist das Arsenal
wenig Park, den ich durch führe
Töchter der Zeit
die Berge sind sie leise Völker
für Wahrheit für Liebe
Glück
meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist

 



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