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christmas poems

Stadt, die nicht eine Stadt ist
um Mitternacht
ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
ich sagte
Bruder, bin ich Feuer
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
ich stand
das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
die Wiese kroch
unter meinem Fenster in einer Stadtstraße
fällt hier kein Licht
er würde sogar seinen Witz haben


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