Flight of the Brokenhearted

First there is the sky, that wide expanse.

Then there are the birds, their winged dance.

Fluttering, snapping, cracking—they go away,

But he is there, though not as simply as they.

His glider fights, as if with breath of life.

Yet in the air, he can't find woe or strife.

He flies, though not as gracefully as birds,

And swoops, stirring talk and anxious words.

The Airman, once flying only nights,

Now, in America, in day alights.

He's come to share his plans and his machine.

He shall display his plans for all to see.

He'll reconstruct the man-made bird he lost.

He'll reach the air, no matter what the cost.

Broekhart, who once did take to the air,

Shall remake his machine to take him there!

He'll brave the disbelief and wary looks

To put his name in all the record books.

Then he'll remember the glory of the night

When he first did achieve a powered flight.

First there is the sky, that wide expanse.

Then there are the birds, their winged dance.

Fluttering, snapping, cracking—they go away,

But he is there, though not as simply as they.