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sorry poem

Gott
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
schön
O angemessen und stately Mädchen, dessen Augen
ich liebe die alten melodious Lagen
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
jene schwarzen Augen I einmal so gepriesen
Ruhe als die zweiter Sommer
was ich Ihnen verdanken
und so geht sie
für Wahrheit für Liebe
weich weinend
lassen Sie einen Freudenunterhalt Sie
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben

 



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