Luyện nghe bài hát Flight

i) Flying

I always forget how crazy are
so sometimes it me off my guard
they make sense.
The on the road trail the arrow in the sky,
I search for the mote in my eye
the pence...
a time of instruments.
Still when I've woken
or what constitutes a mind,
though the thought unspoken
I know I'm blind.

into cold sweat on the white-hot coals
the pennies heaven drop through my soul:
it relent.
At the back end of dreams I'm to awake...
I offer my but just can't shake
seventh sense
to which no defense.
It the time was for action,
it seemed so to be that kind...
my tongue writhed to form retraction
but I knew I was blind.

I want things to be fast, down to the
I the zero-gravity 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,
had slipped my mind:
I'd strapped into the Fortress
but the Fortress was blind.
We got clearance,
so someone down there to know
the truth of our -
If even still shows it accuses and blames me,
but nothing was quite it seemed.
Sometimes things out so strangely
that it as well all be dreamed.

ii) The Cane Fandango

The White Cane Fandango in code,
try to through the message,
the load;
only sin, running on the spot
till the begins.

Where does a man go when the muscles
Try to write out a postcard on a postage
with a pin punching out the Braille
for the within?

Upset the contango on future stock;
backwardation, hold onto what you've got -
such a 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 -
that black and white.

iii)

The charts are spread,
but we're gliding deep into the red,
the radio is
every valve open.
The screen flicks monochrome,
air controller wants to get on home,
waiting for a phone
to him from responsibility.
Nobody goes to see him any
except for the man the ministry.

He wanted to be, he to be
the man at the helm, in of the flightpath;
he's flying a chair, beyond control;
he's to have just one more chance
at a roll.

All in a dream, all as a dream,
the too bright, the music too deafening -
the black-out has just begun to show.
These words I offer...
but I don't know.

Cool suffuse the colour gun -
oh come in, come in number
your nearly run.
the frame,
the present and the past fast...
It's too fast, the don't,
the won't,
the don't last.

iv)

The rolling clash together, never 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, that they know
how anythings gone down here
fit into an analytic groove.
Wait for the move,
for some action we all can approve.

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

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

v) Wings

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

Sycamore silk-worm
or Roman to the ground,
there's one thing for sure:
the balloon goes up
the aeronaut down.

vi) Nothing is

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

vii) A Box

Softly, the angels their time and space refrain:
there's in everything if you can only pin down its name
Aerobatic at the back of my mind -
Is it nothing but the line we all follow?
Nothing but the spiral twist of
There'll be no looking from tomorrow on today.

So the wire is tripped, split-seconds defect to successors;
the umbilical cord is -
we all are in free fall.
I stall where I am, as if to see I've been,
only down the looping line we all follow,
chasing down the spiral twist of DNA.
There can be no looking on to tomorrow today.

Life/death/night/day...
cold breath surely fly away.
Is the empire of locked in a black box
deep in me, encoded somehow?
It the imagination to fly on a wing and a prayer
my life. Is that 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 back from tomorrow,
no, be no looking back on today;
be looking on to tomorrow...
better on today.