Through the skylight, the twilight of stars burn themselves blue
It is absolutely true, that in the swan-song, of our fabulous years
Smiles replace frowns, making us downright free of our fears
With clear paper and pen, and the now and the then, and with zen
We appear set for the journey; with tourniquets behind to impress those dear
Nearby, the Egyptian Cotton, begotten of toil and strife
Laid to rest out a life, our celebrations are denied of all but love
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