Luyện nghe bài hát Aren't captives

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

The next day when he got to the airport for his next flight, the of the 747 heard about the young pilot who had been killed,
Crashing into the ocean after his cessna oil pressure.
This was the man whose voice had kept him flipping through the channels to listen.
The voice had its balance as the slow descent began.
The limbo of a man who has time to think about it.
A man who has twenty minutes question mark.
Until life or question mark? And the pilot of the 747 remembered the young 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.
They captives, just clouds. Only clouds.

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