Penned this on an airindia flight between Muscat and Mumbai, back in my early teens. A tribute to my father.
Were you the seed of ignorance?
The restless flow of vice
shows a pattern, doesn’t it?
What appeals to the eye as false,
often, false they are not.
Your wings are my blood.
designed to flow.
Crete was no match
to the stem of ingenuity.
I evaded the solid terrain,
and the restless waters,
and chose the stubborn air.
yet you, my own blood?
Fly not too low,
or the burden of the damp
would encompass all the burden of Minos.
Fly not too high,
or you begin to question
the authority of the one above.
Instructions don’t always make sense do they?
Yet, fly high, you did.
And the devil’s own wax did melt;
while this anguished father cried
‘Icarus, where are you?’
I couldn’t hear your pleas,
you had grown your own wings by then.
And this poor artist,
watched as his art floated on the sea below.
And no signs of Icarus.
were you the seed of ignorance?
I wished to be the wind beneath your wings.
But when i saw, there were no wings at all.