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christmas poetry

sie limps mit dem Anhalten des schmerzlichen Schrittes
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling
mittlere Vergnügen und Paläste, obwohl wir durchstreifen können
ich wuĂźte nie, daĂź die Masse soviel Gold hatte
Meister der menschlichen Schicksale sind ich
und breakethbrot nicht mehr
es gab eine Zeit in den ehemaligen Jahren
ich bin der Wind, der wavers

 



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