Wooden wings

Whenever Hó had free time,
I went up into the forest to look for branches,
with the necessary shape and hardness,
to start carving your next sculpture.

When I found the right wood,
I worked on it little by little.
No rush.

Hó always carved wings,
When I finished a
He was proud to see the shape
he had taken of a piece
of wood abandoned on the ground.

There came a day when Hó wondered
if I could go further.

-Wings are used for flying. -Thought.

Maybe that was the real reason
of Hon's fascination with wings.


Maybe what didn't make sense
It was carving wings out of wood,
that were not good for flying.

Thus, Hó stopped building
his useless wooden wings
And he began to build different,
useful wings.

Thought and designed to fly.

After a while adding up
small findings and
great failures,
Hó even built wings
balanced and light,
with what you need to launch
to his first big flight.

He looked for a suitable place,
He plucked up the courage
And he took the plunge.

For a few moments he flew.

But after a few seconds,
Hó heard an unexpected noise.
The fabric couldn't stand the force of the wind
And it had torn apart.

The wings had become
in a set of golden tatters
that shivered with the passage of the air.

What started out as flight,
It had become a fall.

Luck made the timber structure
That held the scraps of cloth
and the branches of the trees,
protect him sufficiently
at the end of the fall.

Hó landed on the ground, sore and frightened,
but alive.

His body responded, he could move,
But his will did not appear.
Hó's soul felt broken, empty.

The inevitable wounds of such a fall,
they were on the inside.

As soon as he was able to get up
He began to pick up the scraps of wood
and cloth that their wings had formed.

He had quit for good
to the idea of becoming a
inhabitant more of the sky.

When Hó was ending,
Something on the ground caught his eye.

It was one of his useless ones,
but beautiful, wooden wings.
He recognized her.

Hó had done a lot of things after that.
And his technique had improved,
But still, there was something special about it.
Something recognizable.

On that piece of wood, there was something of him,
of their desires, of their questions.

Did it make sense to make wings out of wood,
that are not good for flying?

Even if it didn't seem logical,
He felt it was important to him.

He reached for his knife and began to go over details
and to soften shapes.

That cadence of cuts returned.
The form softened little by little.

After all, something was still alive.
There were other types of flight.

As Hó went over that form,
without being aware of it,
His body began to rise little by little,
until their feet stopped touching
with the ground.

Hó was flying.