Luyện nghe bài hát Aren't captives

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

The next day when he got to the airport for his next flight, the pilot of the 747 about the young pilot who had been killed,
Crashing the ocean 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 slow began.
The limbo of a man who has time to think about it.
A man who has twenty until question mark.
life or question mark? And the pilot of the 747 remembered the young pilots words.
The sky against the roofs. The warm in summer. His girl. Her favorite dress. Blue.
Air conditioned. She is transluscent in the light. She is and white.

The children they would someday together.
She told him, they're always there, towing along us, like 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