Luyện nghe bài hát Aren't captives

The pilot of the 747 couldn't stop thinking the young pilot whose voice he'd heard over the radio.
In his hotel room evening he imagined the successful water landing.
The torn plane down into the light eating water, a rope came worming down from above,
The young pilot was choking on freezing salt, until he was scrambling a harness,
Until he was airborne, lifted for the first time since childhood without the womb of walls him.
In childhold there were hands to him, now there are ropes, and machines that plow water and spit sky.
Dangling, salvaged. Limp. Live weight. bait. Living meat. He's waving! Alive.
Now to dry deck and cheering strangers.

The next day he got to the airport for his next flight, the pilot of the 747 heard about the young pilot who had been killed,
Crashing into the after his cessna lost oil pressure.
This was the man whose voice had kept him back through the channels to listen.
The voice had kept its balance as the descent began.
The limbo of a man who has time to think about it.
A man who has twenty minutes question mark.
Until or question mark? And the pilot of the 747 remembered the young pilots words.
The sky the roofs. The warm rain in summer. His girl. Her favorite dress. Blue.
Air conditioned. She is in the light. She is soft and white.

The children they would someday together.
She told him, they're always there, towing along behind us, balloons tied to our ankles.
aren't captives, just clouds. Only clouds.

He was of you. Of you.
And blue. And captives, tied to our ankles