The echo of a distant day lays heavy in the air and like some far off megaphone the words distinguished only if I strain to hear make some form of warning, shall I fear the unknown shown?

We were on the final run in and with both the engines gunning, flashing flames from all the turbines whining noise.

The boys stood steady at the dials measuring but slow the miles to go.

Control to airborne one four one your wheels are down but two are gone, are you reading? over,
I was over it a year ago, I dreamt it through a radio and now the tower wants to say,
the foam is down on runway
nine.

Fly by wire on the line we're heading in on runway nine and that's the last I heard.
Word on the street where bogie men meet to compare their notes,
'hanging by a thread, but most of them living, the dead we can't save,
the dead
we can't save',
and the echo,
the echo
begins its descent.