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life poetry

er spricht nicht gut
ich bin fevered
Blüten der Babys
es war der Herbst des Jahres
wenn der rote Slayer denken, slays er
mit dem Sonnenuntergang
ich war eine Göttin, ere der Marmor mich fand
Geräusche, die sich bemühen heftig zu zerreißen
lieben Sie mich schließlich oder, wenn Sie nicht werden
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben

 



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