Long ago, a young man sits and plays his waiting game.
But things are not the same it seems as in such tender dreams.
Slowly passing sailing ships and Sunday afternoon.
Like people on the moon I see are things not meant to be.
to love is just a word I've heard when things are being said.
Stories my poor head has told me cannot stand the cold.
a misbegotten guess alas and bits of broken glass.
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend, loving the love I love to love to love to love.
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