The window-pane in my imagination is always green but vain
It’s the television of the manifestation of my bliss and pain
Even though the thirteen years have been gone since it was pour into rain
I still sniff its rust game of the tarnished frame and eager to see the train again
Yes, the old train is whistling while its crossing the old hill, mesmerizing!
Oh my sweet darling please joint into this mind streaming yet I became an annoying