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poem for pastors

gestiegen von den Toten
wickeln Sie die Masse im bewölkten Wetter auf
ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
zu, was eine Frau sie geliebt vergleicht
irgendwo las ich eine merkwĂĽrdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
unter einem ausgebreiteten Kastaniebaum
in den mournful Zahlen
alter Wein zum Trinken
die Schatten der Schiffe
ich sehe allen menschlichen Esprit

 



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