Icarus fell.
The farmer in the field saw
the pregnant sails of the ship
pointing toward a foreign port.
Closer to shore, the foot-
tips of the boy, his wings
unseen beneath the sea of glass.
The splash remained unrecorded.
Only the earth parted in ripples,
broken by the plow's persistent push
as the young man considered
the whims and woes of the harvest.
'Please, let it rain, Lord.
No more stumps in the way.
I am weary, Lord. No blight of locusts
or early morning frost this autumn.'
He found comfort in the calluses
that adorned like pearls his palms,
and in his muscles, tired and throbbing,
but none in any vagary of flight:
A boy who tumbled
like a brick out of the blue.
A foolish boy, now in the water,
dead or drowning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Buenos Diaz, Senor Ramos, This is the best poem of yours I have read on the site. It is a superb piece. The contrast from the painting is captured so well here. The prayer of the farmer working the land and the description of his callused hands is really at the core of this piece. A solid 10 from me. I cannot disagree with your conclusion. But again, the nature of adventure and flight is risk and sometimes we fly too close to the sun and suffer the consequences! Have a joyous Christmas and New Year. Hugh