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lost love poem

ein Sturm fährt auf den Tide
durch die rude Brücke
alle jene Schätze, die liegen
Nacht war schwarz und drear
vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
ich stand das geöffnete Flügelfenster bereit
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
süsses splendor

 



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