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Twenty-seven is a time of
glory
When one can go a' sailing with the wind.
Each day remains a wonder in the making,
Neither rare nor simply for the taking,
The sort of miracle time can rescind.
Yet not yet has one refined one's story.
Sing, then, of water dimpled with
delight,
Each black lagoon sweet dappled in the sun,
Veiled by passions slender in their
yearning.
Eventually, the days of youth are gone,
Nor would one trade one's wisdom for their light. |
