Lift off, friends and foes of mine, gonna fly again tonight,
Thin air makes me infinitely happy and drunk.
I'd sleep in clouds, I'd see herbs and honey and ice,
Purple feathers of the Provence, and a whte blanket of the Mont Blanc.
When I'm airborn, someone can see a dream about me, and this dream is inside of me.
Under the wing wind composes blues for St. Exupery.
If not that painfull need to breath deeply,
To catch the resonance of a golden hum of April with my rib,
I'd never rush to the sky so hard, I'd even forget the spring for good,
I'd turn it off like a dashboard light.
I'm even ashamed a bit by the fact that I'm no longer affraid of anything.
Under the wing the wind is blue, blue, like this spring blues.
Fuel ran out about three hours ago now,
All that remains is Love and a tiny bit of Faith.
And eyes of Faith in seconds of love are so green -
Like a bottle ice on heights with countless cracks.
And St. Exupery wonders lazily "will I make it, or will I crash"?
Under the wing wind's guzzling the las spring blues.