I'm coming back from Astana

Although the sky is cloudy, we have a clear direction, We soar through the thick clouds or cloud disruption. When the pure white clouds spread like a carpet, We glide over them like seagulls in flight target. It resembles the smoke of a steamboat, The swirling cloud is approaching about. I realized I had entered the West border, Gazing intently at the shape of Earth order. Everything looks even and featureless, The gray steppe, the mountains, the winding dunes. The ravines carve through relentless, Like the wrinkles of an old person on Earth’s surface. In the distance, a settlement waves, Did the people there see us from the graves? “I’ll be a pilot when I grow,” the boy dreams, With that ambition, he set his sights! No matter how vast the land may spread, From the sky, it's just a palm instead. When my feet touch the ground below, I’ll be as small as that hand in tow!