Wooden wings

Whenever he had free time,
I would go up to the forest to look for branches
with the necessary shape and hardness
to begin carving his next sculpture.

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

He always carved wings,
When I finished one,
was proud to see that shape
that I had taken from a piece
wooden box abandoned on the ground.

The day came when he asked himself
if it could go further.

-Wings are for flying. - He thought.

Maybe that was the real reason
of his fascination with wings.


Maybe what didn't make sense
was to carve wooden wings,
that were useless for flying.

Thus, it stopped building
their useless wooden wings
and began to build different wings,

Conceived and designed to fly.

After some time adding
small findings and
major failures,
he even built some wings
balanced and light,
with what it takes to launch
to its first big flight.

He looked for a suitable location,
took courage
and was launched.

For a few moments it flew.

But within seconds,
heard an unexpected noise.
The fabric could not withstand the force of the wind
and had been torn.

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

What started out as flight,
had turned into a fall.

As luck would have it, the wooden structure
that held the fabric scraps
and the branches of the trees,
sufficiently protected him
at the end of the fall.

He landed on the ground, sore and scared,
but alive.

His body responded, he could move,
but his will did not appear.
I felt my soul broken, empty.

The inevitable injuries from such a fall,
were inside.

As soon as he could get up,
began to collect the remains of wood
and fabric that had formed its wings.

I had resigned definitively
to the idea of becoming a
another inhabitant of the sky.

When I was about to finish,
something on the floor caught his attention.

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

He had done many after that
and his technique had improved,
but still, there was something special about it.
Something recognizable.

In that piece of wood, there was something of him.
Your wishes, your questions.

Did it make sense to make wooden wings,
that are not suitable for flying?

Even if it had no apparent logic,
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 shape was gradually softening.

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

As I went over that form,
without being aware of it,
his body began to rise little by little,
until their feet were no longer in contact
with the ground.

I was flying.