Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

i) Blind

I always forget how crazy are
so it catches me off my guard
when make sense.
The line on the trail the arrow in the sky,
I search for the in my brother's eye
the pence...
a of blunt instruments.
Still uncertain when woken
or what constitutes a mind,
the thought remains unspoken
I I'm flying blind.

Breaking into sweat on the white-hot coals
the pennies from drop through my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of dreams I'm to awake...
I offer my theories but just shake
that sense
to there's 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 flying blind.

I things to be fast, down to the power-dive;
I want the zero-gravity 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 the Fortress
but the Fortress was blind.
We got clearance,
so someone down there ought to
the of our disappearance -
If even still shows it accuses and blames me,
but nothing was quite it seemed.
things work out so strangely
that it might as all be dreamed.

ii) The Cane Fandango

The White Cane in Morse code,
try to shake the message,
shake the
venial sin, running on the spot
till the begins.

Where does a man go when the cramp?
Try to write out a on a postage stamp
with a drawing pin out the Braille
for the whole

Upset the contango on your stock;
backwardation, hold onto what you've got -
such a grin!
Some day you may
to that in.

If we this right
the will fall in our hands.
If we survive the
the future will out -
nothing's that and white.

iii)

The colour-coded are spread,
but we're still gliding deep the red,
the is dead
every blown open.
The screen flicks monochrome,
air traffic wants to get on home,
waiting for a call
to him from 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, beyond control;
he's going to have just one more
at a roll.

All in a dream, all as a dream,
the colours too bright, the too deafening -
the world has just begun to show.
These cracked-out I offer...
but I still know.

blue suffuse the colour gun -
oh come in, come in number
your time's run.
the frame,
the and the past hold fast...
It's too fast, the don't,
the won't,
the thing last.

iv)

The dice clash together, never make up the score;
that old device, the ejector seat, to the floor.
Everybody waits for to make a show,
no-one wants to be the first, that they know
how anythings gone down here
could fit an analytic groove.
for the tactical move,
wait for some we all can approve.

Too much to drink, for the cup reaches to the sea;
too to think, the barometer pressuring me.
down the weather for an Easter parade,
reeling out the Maydays in the of being saved,
but the radio out giving blood -
no, no, not listening.
The knows his "Wisden",
the has got his "Jane's",
but the sum of this factual
don't us to fly the plane
(no, and it will...)
Beneath the tartan two-piece rips undone...
for the ladder to run
wait for the snake that the becomes.

A hits the cockpit, willing to chance his game:
pulls out his gun and it
in the hope it all might change.
(Oh, but it will...)
A fly-leaf the library shows others have been here before,
tried, and kicked out the door;
the aircrew don't anymore.
Now just wait
for the beat of the wing,
for the heat to come down on us
full of the law.

v) Wings

Full force of pulls me down,
I'll be better off out of
aerobatic around,
I'll my chances in the open air.

Sycamore wings
or Roman to the ground,
there's one thing for sure:
when the goes up
the calm down.

vi) Nothing is

He say nothing is quite it seems,
he say is quite what it seems;
I say is nothing.

vii) A Box

Softly, the angels sing their time and refrain:
there's 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 spiral of DNA?
There'll be no looking back tomorrow on today.

So the is tripped, split-seconds defect to their successors;
the umbilical cord is -
here we all are in fall.
I where I am, as if to see where I've been,
only running the looping line we all follow,
chasing down the spiral twist of DNA.
There can be no on to tomorrow from 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 life. Is how it is?
(There'll be no looking on this...)
is now, which will be then?
Is this the
All I know for is
is the end.

No looking back tomorrow,
no, there'll be no back on today;
better be on to tomorrow...
better on today.