Steel on the skyline Sky made of glass Made for a real world All things must pass Ooo Waiting for something Looking for someone Is there no reason?
Get out from under precipice and see the sky.
Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there! Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim, These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him; To a boon southern country he is fled, And now in happier air, Wandering with the great Mothers train divine (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) Within a folding of the Apennine.
When I behold the skylark move in perfect joy towards its love the sun, when I behold the skylark, growing drunk with joy, forget the use of wings, so that it topples from the height of heavens, I envy the bird's fate.
Im still fly, Im sky high and I dare anybody to try and cut my wings.
The sky is the limit.
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