Music: When Shall My Sorrowful Sighing.
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|Seventy's a lush, high mountain meadow
Eerie in the silence of its sky:
Vividly awash in alpine flowers,
Easy in the soft and vagrant hours,
Not quite at home but loathe to question why.
The moon shines through the veil, pocked and sallow,
Yet still the sun casts down its golden eye.