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death poem

der Geruch von stieg so falsch, die zutreffenden Dornen so
ich stehe im kalten grauen Wetter
singen Sie wieder dem Song Sie gesungen
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
geheimnisvolle Nacht
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
mit den meek, braunen Augen

 



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