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mom poem

irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
das Emporheben, als der Wind brannte durch
niedrig! ' tis ein Galanacht
er kam mich durch die Hand nehmen
ich muß sagen gute Nacht
Meister der menschlichen Schicksale sind ich
um so bald zu diesem zu kommen stellte sich Dunkelheit vor
machen Sie sich nicht Sorgen, daß er rüber sein
warum
wenn es

 



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