plane poem
TOUCH THE SKY WITH BURNING FIRE
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.