We are dreaming of tomorrow and tomorrow isn't coming
  We are dreaming of a glory that we don't really want
  We are dreaming of a new day when the new day's here already
  We are running from the battle when it's one that must be fought.
  And still we sleep.
  
  We are listening for the calling but never really heeding
  Hoping for the future when the future's only plans
  Dreaming of the wisdom that we are dodging daily
  Praying for a saviour when salvation's in our hands.
  And still we sleep.
  
  And still we sleep,
  And still we pray,
  And still we fear,
  And still we sleep.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
  Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
  
  Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
  Because their words had forked no lightning they
  Do not go gentle into that good night.
  
  Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
  Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
  
  Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
  And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
  Do not go gentle into that good night.
  
  Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
  Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
  
  And you, my father, there on the sad height,
  Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
  Do not go gentle into that good night.
  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

When I was young I believed I had to hold your hand to feel its warmth.
  But now I know you’re with me, even if you’re not by my side.
   
  Now that I have a warm spot too.
  Just the thought of you warms my whole heart.
  I’ll live knowing the moon is still there, even during the day.
   
  So if you’re going to leave, go like the gentle waves.
  After fifty years, finally set me down and be free.
   
  My precious dear, you have worked so hard.
  My precious dearest, thank you for your hard work.

When the plane went down in San Francisco,
  I thought of my friend M. He's obsessed with
  plane crashes.
  
  He memorizes the wrecked metal details,
    the clear cool skies cut by black scars of smoke
  
  Once, while driving, he told me about all the crashes:
  The one in blue Kentucky, in yellow Iowa.
  
  How people go on, and how people don't.
  
  It was almost a year before I learned
  that his brother was a pilot.
  
  I can't help it,
  I love the way men love.