plane poem

entry picture



Enemy birds of combat fly to their destiny,

they’re made by factories in Russia and elsewhere.

Their high escort provides their aerial

protection against enemy planes.

With such professional care the aerial hawk

checks his missiles; suddenly his wingman

is a burning shower of sparks – gone.

Nine miles above an aerial chariot launches

his missile, no one can touch this high altitude

warplane as his technology always wins.

The lower enemy planes fall to the ground

on so much falling flaming fire

their battle tragically lost.

◄ a poem for a girl i can never have unless a miracle happens

a poem... ►


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