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short poem

rühren Sie sich
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
welches hält
war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
Töchter der Zeit
weich als das Bett in der Masse
umsponnen und gesponnen
es gab eine Zeit in den ehemaligen Jahren
bleiben Sie nicht mehr
um Mitternacht

 



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