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Blumen leben nicht bei mir…

У меня не живут цветы...

Blumen leben nicht bei mir,
Ihre Schönheit kann kurz nur betrügen,
Sie stehen ein, zwei Tage, und verblühen,
Blumen leben nicht bei mir.

Auch die Vögel leben nicht hier,
Plustern traurig sich, und spröde,
Und am Morgen: Balg mit Federn …
Sogar Vögel leben nicht hier.

Nur die Bücher stehn, acht Reihn
Schweigsamer, gewichtiger Bände,
Wachen müde vor den Wänden,
Haben die Zähne gefletscht in acht Reihn.

Und der Buchhändler, der sie verkauft,
Ich weiß noch, war bucklig und ärmlich …
… Bei dem verfluchten Friedhof erbärmlich
Hat er mir die Bücher verkauft.

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