A train window that separates

I took a few more liberties with this translation than I usually do, but I think I still managed to convey the meaning of the poem. However, you are welcome to suggest improvements! Stralsund, by Dezső Kosztolányi. Original. (It seems Kosztolányi liked to travel by train, as evidenced by his popular novel, Kornél Esti.)

Looking out the carriage window,
A boy stares at me from down below.
He sits in a garden on a cobblestone,
And plumes himself, bored, alone.
Clearly this is his lazy afternoon,
Dreams of flying to the moon,
Nothing of interest in his whole life,
Thinks living my life would be quite nice,
As he sees me in my genteel heaven,
Among pillows, in fine, white clothing,
But oh! my boy, the trains do run,
time does fly, don't search my soul,
see, I'd like to be a kid, like you,
not a weary, first-class bore.