For one wasted night

If I could fly, for one wasted night,
Away from the walls of stubborn red flames,
Over towns with old men, laughing as they drink,
Where the roses start to bloom, and their petals start to sink.
Over rooms filled with music, and telly till three,
As they dance and they fall to an old upbeat song,
Over cigarettes running, and infants as they cry,
Before the sun starts to wake, and the noise starts to die.