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acrostic poem

ich ging auf und ab die Straßen
durch die rude Brücke
sind sie traurig, die nicht Liebe kennen
dort durch das Fenster im alten Haus
warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
wenn Freiheit von ihrer Gebirgshöhe
ängstlich nicht mehr, sage ich

 



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