The blue train prose

I dream of the blue train bending at the curve ,the coal-eater train, through the green hills as if it were a Gir lion one would see walk in at the bend where a brown hill fell in the sky and is distorted by an overbearing blue dome.

The train chugs in with men hanging from it as if they are fleas hanging on the lion’s eyes ,its eyes closing in on a patient understanding. I like its leisurely pipe smokes in a winter sky and roars of annoyance as men come its way.

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