Poem by Hans Tentije

wing-borne

Before daring to execute your leap you had let the bee’s wax

with which your wings were to be fixed to your shoulder blades

harden firmly, while well aware

that you can never escape from any labyrinth

especially not the inner one

no matter how carefully your father set about his work

made use of his best implements, and chose feathers

with sturdy shafts and quills, the risks

remained enormous

which in the last resort weighed heavier against gravity

than the sensation of breaking free, being able to marvel at

the splendid panorama, the entire archipelago

hundreds of metres below you, the mainland still

many miles away

and on the thermal of a light breeze your daring swelled

into hubris, the shrivelling sun

robbed you of your pinions, you were already stone-blind

before the water closed above you

having so cleverly escaped from the convolutions of the maze

you hoped to transcend yourself by making a cast at what was

highest of all, for there for each attempt one must

of course begin repeatedly from the beginning: to capture

a glimpse of the infinite –

that’s why