You coast over an ocean of concrete.
Instead of waves there are painted white lines,
Instead of driftwood, lampposts.
You’ve flown over Achilles on the banks of the Aegean,
You’ve flown over Napoleon’s march into Paris,
You’ve flown over the streets of Dublin on a bloody Sunday.
Over the fields of Athenry,
Over the careless guillotines of France,
Over the gallows, where traitors have gone to die.
Now you are here, sailing the currents
When I throw my cigarette, you dive down
Like a burning white Stuka.
Am I an unwitting partaker
In the history of the future?
Will someone write that you flew over me once?