.Weinend, 'ne Zig'rette haltend
Stehe ich am Fenster.
Ich seh' den Schnee der fallt.
Waren da nicht grade Blumen,
Labend sich am Morgentau?
Lacht nicht grad da ein Kind?
Es hatte meinen Namen,
Und auch sein Vater war ihm fremd.
Liebe war es, wenn er schlug.
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