20 March 2010

Chorale for the Death of Icarus

But he has wings, and is pursued with light.
    Golden he lies,
and he has brushed the sun's fire in his flight.
        We saw him rise
    from the east sea, a wound upon our sight;
dawn was across his wings, and midday in his eyes.

Golden he wheeled in the height of his morning-mad
    brother the sun.
But is this he, this stone-limbed borken lad,
        and are they one,
    the rock-racked boy and he whom the the young sky had?
Mourn not; if this be not his triumph, he has none.

{ Author unknown unfortunately - found when going through my old poetry folders by Randolph Stow }

Icarus flew too close to the sun, but oh boy was he hella cute.