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sex poem

lassen Sie nicht hören
aber alas, gerade Träume
wie ich innen roofed liege, innen aussortiert
Sonne trat unten von seinem goldenen Throne
das kleine mitfühlende, getragen, Lachengesichter
dieses Jahr
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
so gefallen
ich sagte
es gibt kein Entweichen durch den Fluß
dieses ist das Arsenal

 



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