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lost love poem

vor er war viele und viel einem Jahr
alter Wein zum Trinken
wölbte die Flut
denken Sie, mein Junge, wenn ich meine Arme um Sie setze
ich loathed Sie
neben einem geschlagenen Feld
im September
aber ich kann nicht Sie jetzt lesen
auf und an
der Blitz blitzte und hob an
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
im Hafen neuen Yorks
voll von den Rissen


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