Between two parallel lines of blue lights,
morning is about to land;
I wish I could -
I wish someone could announce me mildly
hitting the ground, on time.
Through the windowpane, the airport
is being moulded in.
A ticketed passenger's waiting, on the wane.
His parallel line is hardly a matter of light.

He'd even settle for a tip-off about the east -
home is where you know where,
in the dark skies,
the son is about to pop in.