The morning counts a few hours
when I hear him fighting;
a ghost steals his memories.
Lost, burnt-out eyes stare at me.
I stare back, frightened.

His arms are broken
from clutching clouds.
Matchless stars, blazing
in the furthest skies
make him see memories of suns.

He tried to find limits
and the center of space;
under some unknown fiery eye
his wings melted, crackled, fell.

He, like Icarus, consumed
by love of the beautiful,
never shall have the sublime
honor of giving his name
to the abyss, his tomb.

Marjon van Bruggen
2016, revised 31-5-20