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poetry poem

was es die gesagten Maschinen war
und während wir gingen, wurde das Gras schwach gerührt
und wie Sie Traum der Sitzung konnten
ich kann nicht Ihnen jetzt erklären
Melancholie, Blau war sie
bewiesen im Schimmer in Ihren Augen
das traurigste des Jahres
sehen Sie, daß ich Ihnen mich gebe

 



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