Sometime I think of the peaceful Ashram
By the beautiful pristine river
When I consider those serene full-moon nights
I am lost in the poetry and fairy tales
Of those innocent and joyous times
I can still see a sage meditating
On the moon's reflection
I think of dreams lost in recent year
But my boyish years were not illusive
Thoughts of lost years are not lost at all
Those wishes and whispers of sages still here
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