In Crete, King Minos had asked Daedalus to build the labyrinth for the Minotaur. Having built it, and therefore knowing its structure, Daedalus and his son were precluded from any escape from Crete by Minos, as he feared that its secrets would be revealed and they were locked up in the labyrinth (all this last period lacks the source: Apollodorus in the second century BC he claims that Daedalus is locked up in the labyrinth because Minos holds him responsible for the "success" of Theseus, who can return from the Labyrinth thanks to the expedient of the ball that Daedalus himself had suggested. There are no other sources in antiquity that place Daedalus and Icarus imprisoned in the Labyrinth. Ovid in the Metamorphosis does not, neither does Diodorus Siculus). To escape, Daedalus built wings out of feathers and attached them to their bodies with wax. Despite his father's warnings not to fly too high, Icarus got caught up in the thrill of flying and got too close to the sun (in Phoebus mythology); the heat melted the wax, causing it to fall into the sea where it died. The father arrived safely in Sicily where he built a temple dedicated to Apollo, in memory of his son Icarus.


I had been on the ground for so long that I had forgotten that I had wings once, several years ago, and that I had been able to fly.
But I had continued to keep my eyes turned to the sky, the desire and hope never really dormant in my soul.
And then less than a week ago, those same wings that had already betrayed me and made me fall, were offered to me again.
Without thinking even for a second on a possible new fall, I accepted them enthusiastically and with a jump, with my eyes closed, I went back to flying.
Come Icarus.
The sky was of a blue so intense as to hurt the eyes, the flimsy clouds, not at all threatening, the sun near and far at the same time.
The heart, as light as the body.
To spend a lifetime walking, after experiencing flight, is agony, torture. Icaro was right: dizziness, the fear of falling are little thing when you can soar in the air.
But then the heat became too intense, the light too strong, the oxygen too rare. And suddenly, I was no longer flying, but fumbling.
I widened my eyes, not knowing whether to bring my hands to my throat or to try to protect my skin, looking down in horror: I was falling.
Once again.
Slowly, because the wings still tried to support me, but inexorably.
And there wasn't a single branch to slow my fall; I saw no possibility of salvation.
I was a fool, just like Icarus: I wanted to fly at all costs, so much so that I forgot that if I fell I could even die.
I started to turn around, grab something - anything - but my fingers met only air and a vortex accompanied me downwards.
I looked with sadness and regret at my wings, beautiful and equally fragile, and it came naturally to me to wonder if it was worth it.
And as the ground got closer and more threatening, I couldn't help but admit to myself more than, in any case, I wouldn't be refusing those wings even if I had another thousand years at my disposal. Ten centuries. Or a hundred other lives.


Scattered squeaks
On parched clearing
life is rediscovered for new fictions.

The whole thing thins out as we search
unfair and covering us up
of sins not ours.

We learn to free ourselves from mistakes,
to hover like drones
in delicate flights of fancy that
not like Icarus can be a
maze of roads to follow
but like butterflies:
a day like a lifetime.

Without forgetting to live it well
away from material penalties
but with the most genuine smiles,
with no tattoos from the past
imprinted more than ink,
but like the monks of the cloister
absorbed in their silence
that is worth a thousand words.

To go as far as you want.

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