We haphazardly flutter, across zephyrs we stutter,
avoid nets of the hunter hearing them murmur and mutter.
As we swoop and we swoon through the morn and the noon
unlike moths we're not caught, in nocturne, chasing the moon.
My gossamer wings are bright beautiful things
wild spectrums of colour, explosions that sing.
Flight is my life, under sun, under sky
in paroxysms of rainbow, yes, flight is my life.