Bruegel’s Icarus

 

Heading to the city,

White buildings he saw

But blinded by the sun,

His wings he lost.

In a village he fell;

Villagers did not care

For what happened to Icarus.

His destiny meant nothing

As life continued, the traveler passed by,

The plowman kept his working,

The fisherman continued his daily catch.

His wings,

Other men borrowed

To fly away to the city

He could never see.

But in the deep ocean,

Icarus saw other corpses

Of dreamers like him.

Mary Bishop

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