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.