Lucky me that the engines kept humming so loudly;
I was left by myself, one on one with my shame -
I’d forgotten my rifle was not fastened soundly,
And did not promptly exit the plane.

My instructor was quick to deliver a kick
To my lazy and cowardly rear.
He was mumbling the usual, "Don’t be such a chick", -
So I guessed, though I couldn’t quite hear.

My cheeks are hotly blazing,
The rushing wind outroars me.
And, like an ice-cold razor,
The air-streams rise towards me.

As, silently, I’m screaming,
The dreadful noise escorts me.
Cavorting and careening,
The air-streams race towards me.

It’s as if I’ve been grabbed by a skillful magician.
Now, the air-streams - not I - have control of my limbs;
And I gladly assume every crazy position,
And obey every one of their whims.

Is there any good reason I’m plunging through space?
Maybe later, it might become clear.
But, for now, the horizon stares right in my face,
While the clouds seem to scatter in fear.

My cheeks are hotly blazing,
The rushing wind outroars me.
And, like an ice-cold razor,
The air-streams rise towards me.

I’m having trouble breathing;
The dreadful noise escorts me.
Advancing and receding,
The air-streams race towards me.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

From the heights of the stratosphere, down into nowhere -
I was inside the airplane, and then I was gone;
I walked up to the edge, and I blindly stepped over,
To the free-fall I said, "Bring it on!"

I will break through this lightless and smothering gauze,
With my parachute yet undeployed.
But one can’t really call this a "free-fall", because
What I’m falling through isn’t a void!

My cheeks are hotly blazing,
The rushing wind outroars me.
And, like an ice-cold razor,
The air-streams rise towards me.

My eyes are almost bleeding;
The dreadful noise escorts me.
Eternal and unfeeling,
The air-streams race towards me.

And the wind whispers glibly, "Do nothing, don’t worry,
Wait a bit - and you’ll softly descend from the skies."
Only three hundred meters are left, I must hurry,
For the wind’s surely telling me lies!

So I pull on the ring, and get tugged by the straps,
And the previous few minutes are moot.
There may be no such thing as a free-fall, perhaps -
But I’m still free to open my ’chute!

My cheeks are nicely cooling;
My eyes can open wider;
The air-streams, now, feel soothing,
As I gaze sadly skyward.

The lonely stars up there seem
To quietly ignore me,
As I drink in the air-streams
That slowly rise towards me.