Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

Flying
I alway forget how crazy are
so it catches me off my guard
they make sense.
The line on the trail the arrow in the sky,
I for the mote in my brother's eye
the pence...
a time of instruments.
uncertain when I've woken
or what constitutes a mind,
the thought remains unspoken
I I'm flying blind.
Breaking into cold sweat on the white-hot
the from heaven drop through my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of dreams I'm to awake...
I offer my theories but can't shake
that seventh
to which no defense.
It seemed the was for action,
it seemed so to be that kind...
my tongue writhed to form some
but I
I was blind.
I things to be fast, down to the power-drive;
I the zero-gravity heroes to play dead,
but alive.
We want it to be slow, all the way to
we talk a thousand things that never change at all.
No, it change...
It was that I knew I'd been thoughtless -
something had slipped my
I'd strapped myself into the
but the Fortress was blind.
We got full clearance, so down there
ought to the truth of our disappearance -
If even that still it accuses and blames me,
but nothing was what it seemed.
Sometimes things out so strangely
that it as well all be dreamed.
The Cane Fandango
The White Cane in Morse code,
try to shake the message,
shake the
only sin, running on the spot -
the dance begins.
Where does a man go when the muscles
Try to write out a on a postage stamp
with a drawing pin out the Braille
for the within?
Upset the on your future stock;
backwardation, hold onto what you've got -
such a sideways grin! day you may need
to that in.
If we this right
the future will in our hands.
If we the flight
the future work out -
nothing's that and white.

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

for a phone
to release him responsibility.
Nobody goes to see him any
for the man from the ministry.
He to be, he wanted to be
the man at the helm, in of the flightpath;
he's flying a chair, quite beyond
he's going to have one more chance
at a roll.
All in a dream, all as a dream,
the colours too bright, the too deafening -
the black-out world has just to show.
cracked-out words I offer...
but I still know.
Cool blue suffuse the gun -
oh in, come in number one:
your time's run.
the frame,
the present and the hold fast...
It's too fast, the don't,
the won't,
the don't last.

The rolling dice clash together make up the score;
old device, the ejector seat, glued to the floor.
Everybody waits for everyone to a show -
no-one wants to be the first, admitting that know
how anythings that's gone here
could fit into an groove...
W
ait for the move,
wait for action we all can approve.
Too to drink, for the cup reaches down to the sea;
too much to think, the pressuring me.
down the weather for an Easter parade,
reeling out the Maydays in the 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
help us to fly the plane
(no, and it will...)
the tartan two-piece something rips undone...
Wait for the to run
wait for the snake that the becomes.
A passenger hits the cockpit, to chance his game:
pulls out his gun and it
in the hope that it all change. (oh, but it never will...)
A fly-leaf from the library shows have been here before,
tried, failed and out the door;
the don't care anymore -
not they wait
for the beat of the wing,
for the heat to come down on us
- full of the law.
Silk-Worm
Full force of pulls me down,
I'll be off out of there;
spin around,
I'll take my chances in the air.
silk-worm wings
or Roman to the ground,
there's only one for shure:
the balloon goes up
the aeronaut down.
He say nothing is quite it seems,
he say nothing is quite what it
I say is nothing.
A Box
Softly, the angels sing their and space refrain:
there's in everything if you can only pin down its name
thoughts at the back of my mind -
Is it nothing but the looping we all follow?
Nothing but the twist of DNA
be no looking back from tomorrow on today.
So the is tripped, split-seconds defect to their successors;
the cord is ripped -
here we all are in fall.
I stall where I am, as if to see I've been:
running down the looping line we all follow,
only chasing down the twist of DNA -
can be no looking on to tomorrow from today.
Life/death/night/day - breath will surely fly away.
Is the empire of sensation locked in a box
in me, encoded there somehow?
It fires the imagination to fly on a wing and a
my life
- is how it is?
There'll be no looking on this...
this is now, which be then -
is this the means? All I for shure is
is the end.
No looking back tomorrow,
no, there'll be no looking on today;
better be on to tomorrow...
think on today.
All by Peter Hammill
Published by Hit and Run Publishing Ltd.
by permission.
S-type records, Shaftsbury Ave., London W.I.
by Jet
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