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poem for dad

sie hörte die Kinder, in der Sonne zu spielen
warum
winged Schatten, die vorbei fegen
aller Tag zum Aufpassen der blauen Welle sich zu kräuseln und zu brechen
unter den Rauch und Nebel eines Dezembernachmittages
weich als das Bett in der Masse
die Schiffe liegen in der Bucht
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
babylon -- wo ich gehe zu träumen

 



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