At seventy I still have a song to sing
A newly composed song all my own
The love song of youth gradually grows distant
And yet I have no intention of mourning for myself
Each time I consider it the last
Rarely sung more than once in life
Sing for all you’re worth, heedless of others
Happy, tearing, or unmoved
Eternal as the stars, fleeting as a rainbow
And it’s up to you, to listen and cast aside by the wind
Or gathered by the fireside in old age
I’m just a whooping crane, skimming
Across the centuries, crying briefly or at length
Betwixt movements of the head, the rivers and mountains
shrink
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