Icaro

«Icare, dixit, ubi es?» Wings are not lasting, is not your flight but fall and yet it was a fine venture, only the kite is striving to resist the force of gravity and be hanging, small white prosthesis which wants to claw an indifferent sky. In his pure white pod a little Icarus is kicking like a newborn baby in his swaddling clothes, fallen into hostile surroundings where even the primordial fluid has submitted to be caged, canalized, bereft of the vital breath of wave motion. Little angel without wings, you will be destined to the ground.