Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I alway forget how things are
so sometimes it catches me off my
they make sense.
The line on the road the arrow in the sky,
I search for the mote in my eye
the pence...
a time of instruments.
Still uncertain when woken
or what a conscious mind,
though the thought unspoken
I know I'm blind.
Breaking into cold on the white-hot coals
the pennies from heaven drop my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of dreams I'm to awake...
I offer my theories but just can't
that sense
to which no defense.
It seemed the was for action,
it seemed so cool to be kind...
my tongue writhed to form some
but I
I was blind.
I want things to be fast, down to the
I want the heroes to play dead,
but alive.
We it to be slow, all the way to stall;
we talk about a things that never change at all.
No, it change...
It was then that I I'd been thoughtless -
something had my mind:
I'd myself into the Fortress
but the was flying blind.
We got clearance, so someone down there
ought to know the of our disappearance -
If even that shows it accuses and blames me,
but was quite what it seemed.
things work out so strangely
that it might as all be dreamed.
The Cane Fandango
The White Cane Fandango in code,
try to shake the message,
shake the
venial sin, running on the spot -
till the begins.
Where does a man go the muscles cramp?
Try to write out a postcard on a postage
with a drawing pin punching out the
for the whole
Upset the contango on your stock;
paying backwardation, hold what you've got -
such a sideways grin! day you may need
to trade in.
If we this right
the future fall in our hands.
If we survive the
the future work out -
nothing's black and white.

The colour-coded are spread,
but we're still gliding deep the red,
the is dead
valve blown open.
The radar screen monochrome,
air controller wants to get on home,

for a call
to release him responsibility.
goes to see him any more
except for the man the ministry.
He to be, he wanted to be
the man at the helm, in of the flightpath;
he's flying a chair, quite control;
he's going to have just one chance
at a roll.
All in a dream, all as a dream,
the colours too bright, the music too -
the black-out has just begun to show.
These words I offer...
but I still know.
Cool blue the colour gun -
oh come in, in number one:
your nearly run.
the frame,
the present and the past fast...
too fast, the thing don't,
the won't,
the don't last.

The rolling dice clash together make up the score;
that old device, the seat, glued to the floor.
waits for everyone to make a show -
no-one to be the first, admitting that they know
how anythings gone down here
fit into an analytic groove...
W
ait for the move,
wait for some we all can approve.
Too much to drink, for the cup down to the sea;
too much to think, the barometer me.
Rolling the weather for an Easter parade,
out the Maydays in the hope of being saved,
but the radio ham's out giving -
no, no, no, not listening.
The knows his "Wisden",
the has got his "Jane's",
but the sum of factual wisdom
don't help us to fly the
(no, and it will...)
the tartan two-piece something rips undone...
Wait for the to run
for the snake that the ladder becomes.
A passenger hits the cockpit, to chance his game:
pulls out his gun and it
in the hope that it all might change. (oh, but it will...)
A fly-leaf from the library shows have been here before,
tried, and kicked out the door;
the aircrew don't anymore -
not they wait
for the beat of the wing,
for the heat to come down on us
- force of the law.
Silk-Worm
Full force of pulls me down,
I'll be better off out of
spin around,
I'll take my chances in the air.
silk-worm wings
or Roman to the ground,
there's only one thing for
the balloon goes up
the aeronaut down.
He say is quite what it seems,
he say nothing is what it seems;
I say is nothing.
A Box
Softly, the sing their time and space refrain:
something in everything if you can only pin down its name
Aerobatic thoughts at the of my mind -
Is it nothing but the line we all follow?
Nothing but the twist of DNA
There'll be no looking back from on today.
So the wire is tripped, split-seconds to their successors;
the cord is ripped -
here we all are in fall.
I stall where I am, as if to see where I've
running down the looping line we all follow,
only chasing down the twist of DNA -
There can be no looking on to tomorrow today.
Life/death/night/day - cold will surely fly away.
Is the empire of sensation locked in a box
in me, encoded there somehow?
It fires the to fly on a wing and a prayer
through my
- is how it is?
There'll be no back on this...
is now, which will be then -
is the means? All I know for shure is
is the end.
No looking back tomorrow,
no, there'll be no looking on today;
be looking on to tomorrow...
better on today.
All by Peter Hammill
Published by Hit and Run Music Ltd.
by permission.
S-type records, 55-59 Shaftsbury Ave., W.I.
by Jet
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