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The moon is like a silvery shell
Winter made the trees a cage, branches leafless
in which a song is captured.
It is waiting in a black skeleton
in the dark of the winternight
longing for the light and warmth of a summberbed.
Birds go without a rumor
between the naked bars
the world is crackling with old age.
Dead soldiers in line these trees;
But whom believes in the ever existing light
Hears within a beaming song.
And the moon becomes a silvery shell.
I LOVE YOU
