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autumn poetry

vor dem ernsten Bronzeheiligen
ich sah mit geöffneten Augen
der Regen sein rüber und die leuchtende Luft
wenn ich gekonnt hatte, Enge ein Gefängnis Liebe ist
ihr Gesicht ist angemessen und glatt und fein
unten gekommen an der Dämmerung von den windless Hügeln
Blüten der Babys
ich brenne keinen Duft


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