Oh not until flight Rises no more to the skies
For its own mere will,
But, tiring of self,

Playing round in luminous profiles,
As the tool, as the attainer,
The loved one of the winds,
Whirling with sureness, a slender, -

Only when an innocent “Where? ..”
Prevails over the youthful arrogance
Of this machine’s ascendancy

Tumbling over and over from sheer winning,
Will it truly be, in the distance reached,
That to which it soared, - alone.