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lost love poem

der alte Westen, die alte Zeit
zu einigem die fetten Götter
im September
ihr schönes Haar
wenn die Stunden des Tages numeriert werden
durch das Ufer durch das Meer
eine Meile nach
ich weiß nicht wo
ich rüttele mein Haar im Wind des Morgens
Gott
wie ich innen roofed liege, innen aussortiert
alle werfen die Jahre nieder

 



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