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sorry poem

sind Sie wach?
ich bin der Wind, der wavers
behold ich, in meinem chiffon, in Gaze und in Filterstreifen
unter den Rauch und Nebel eines Dezembernachmittages
gelebt durch den River-side
möglicherweise ist es gleichgültig, das Sie starben
dort durch das Fenster im alten Haus
aber alas, gerade Träume

 



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