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Sixty-five sits easy on the
throne,
Intending to relinquish soon his power.
Xylophones rejuvenate the hour,
Tinkling of a time less far from home,
Years when the gift of life was in full flower.
For now, there is the daydream of a
bower
In which one lives for harmony alone.
Vistas of the old, abandoned tower
Etch against the sky the days of stone. |
