It was spring —there was a boy, And with him was his father. They sat along in rooms That smelled of kerosene And buzzed with machineries, Their hands smudged black With grime and plaster.
It was spring —and his head was a golden halo. How he was created, I suppose we’ll never know. So often the boy would ask, “Father, father, what am I?”
(For if the father was trapped in his cage With only a forge as his company, Then what else could this little boy be?)
It was spring —and the boy grew tall and proud. Hair like fire and eyes like quicksand, “My son, you will reach heights no man Has ever reached before.”
It was spring —and the father’s smile grew tired and weary “I will not be caged,” and yet he was, he was. Thus he took feathers from god-knows-where And built wings from wax and cinders.
It was spring —and my son, do not fly too close to the sun; See there? That is freedom—just do not fly too close to the sun. And the boy nodded, Little long nosed liar that he is.
It was spring, —they say, when Icarus fell. And here was freedom: Wind sharp like glass And the sun too warm, The world minimal between his fingertips. He burned bright, burned fast, died quickly.
(And they say the waves were gentle, As clockwork spilled.)