I wonder
if you can fly me
with your rusty wings
to a world where the sun exists
(I heard it’s the colour of the songs
you play on your radio).
The engine’s humming,
so let’s glide on -
over horizons, over shadows,
over souls - like birds in whispered mourning
(with your dented metal more majestic
than the ghosts of yesterday).
Thank you for flying me to dreams
too far away; thank you
for taking me to worlds
we can never reach
(your wings, they really are
the wings of an angel).
