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friend poem

ihr schönes Haar
ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
wie wie die Sterne dieses Weiß ist, namenlose Gesichter
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden
haben Sie gesehenes Gehen durch das Dorf
die Sonne ist oben
im September
alle innen und alle ohne mich
noch schaukelt ihr Grau Aufsatz über das Meer
gerade als meine Finger auf diesen Schlüsseln
auf und ab geht ihn
hören Sie


 



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