Luyện nghe bài hát Aren't captives

The pilot of the 747 stop thinking about the young pilot whose voice he'd heard over the radio.
In his hotel room that evening he the successful water landing.
The plane sank down into the light eating water, a rope came worming down from above,
The young was choking on freezing salt, until he was scrambling into a harness,
Until he was airborne, lifted for the time since childhood without the womb of walls around 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. Whale bait. 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 pilot of the 747 heard about the young pilot who had killed,
Crashing into the ocean after his lost oil pressure.
This was the man whose had kept him flipping back through the channels to listen.
The voice had kept its balance as the slow began.
The strange of a man who has time to think about it.
A man who has twenty minutes until mark.
Until or question mark? And the pilot of the 747 remembered the young pilots words.
The sky against the roofs. The warm rain in summer. His girl. Her dress. Blue.
Air conditioned. She is transluscent in the light. She is and white.

The they would have someday together.
She told him, they're always there, towing along behind us, like tied to our ankles.
They captives, just clouds. Only clouds.

He was of you. Of you.
And blue. And aren't captives, tied to our