Every Christmas when I fly home from the Far East
I fly over the northern rim of the Pacific Ocean
Carefully over the curve of the Japanese islands
Above the Emperor Seamounts into the grasp of the Aleutian Trench
And in those few hours before I begin my descent into Seattle
I am above these pure, white ice floes
Sometimes it's still night when I fly in
And I can see sparse patches of lights
They're either Alaskan villages or lighthouses
Sometimes the dawn has arrived early and
The beautiful white ice floes stand in contrast to the
Deep blue hue of the cold Pacific
But either way, I find peace in these ice floes
Because down there is silence and a pure innocent cold and
I know there isn't any life for miles and miles
Except for my airplane, flying over, taking me home
