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family poem

in einem alten Raum beleuchtete weich
herauf von die Wiesen reich mit Mais
ich singe Ihnen
Welt, die unter meiner Hand ändert
Schlaf, grauer Bruder des Todes
machen Sie sich nicht Sorgen, daß er rüber sein
ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
entlang einem River-side
ich sah die Wolken unter den Hügeln
wie wie die Sterne dieses Weiß ist, namenlose Gesichter
Glasbläser der Zeit
wenn Freiheit von ihrer Gebirgshöhe
es gibt Gewinne für alle unsere Verluste

 



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