The end of summer, it is the season that hearts flutter in the wind and wafts gently.
It is the season that at the 18:00 train, his face looking down comes to reflect in the window. It is about time the girl blows out ALL ALL the shaking candles on her birthday cake. It is about time the night skin looks around that heat. It is about time wings don't flutter anymore.
The time ghosts are gone, it is about time have break a spell of after school.
The time ghosts are gone the time have break a spell of after school the time the special mix tape plays with wornout sound is the time. I still hear the sea roar and the time pieces of smiles is imprinted on my mind. It is the season that is touched remain through my heart.
It is the season that full bloomed sunflowers fly high to the azure like flying a lion andgone.