Thirty-five has reason
How lovely was the life now left behind.
Indeed, though young, no longer in one's
Recalling days awash in golden ruth,
There is much beauty in this summer wind,
Yearning far more simply than
For all, time is like music
on the mind,
Insidiously bringing one to truth,
Vivid in the vastness of its wonder
Even as one is oneself the singer.