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writing poetry

irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
von Song und Traum für überhaupt gegangen
ich kann nicht Ihnen jetzt erklären
das Emporheben, als der Wind brannte durch
in den Hallen des Schlafes wandered Sie vorbei
schöne, tragical Gesichter
aus dem Fenster heraus ein Meer der grünen Bäume
meine sorge, wenn sie hier mit mir ist
die kleinen weißen Gebete

 



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