Icarus in Delirium of Light and Fall

The sun, as destiny, is a wound.
Icarus rises to arrive and even more to burn.
Each feather is a nerve and each breath a cry.

The air opens like a mirror of fire,
becoming the body in drawing,
a line that dissolves in the clarity.

Daedalus observes, a good builder of abysses.

His hands still hold the labyrinth,
but his son has already transformed it into sky.

Between them, space vibrates
in an instant of creation and ruin,
where flight is also the artist’s gesture.

The sea waits, motionless, like an altar.

And when Icarus falls,
his fall is a myth of transfiguration.

The paper absorbs the impact,
and the drawing continues, moving,
as if the fire had learned to draw.

The studio is a labyrinth.

Daedalus folds the paper
like one who folds destiny.

Icarus, feverish, plunges the brush
into liquid fire.

Both think they are drawing the sky
but the sky refuses to be drawn.

The poem observes.

His trace in the wind, in the fall and in invention.

The figures twist,
the wings are made of nerves and ropes.

The father builds, the son destroys
and the artist records the instant
in which both become confused.

The expressionist delirium
transforms myth into anatomy:
bones that open like wings,
eyes that dissolve into light,
architectures that unravel
into spirals of smoke.

At the bottom of the page, the sea waits
not as punishment, but as a mirror.

And the trembling pencil writes the epitaph:
“to fly is to draw against the limit.”