I kept coming back to this one - Wings of Dreams:
There was something about it - prosaic yet extraordinary - that reminded me of a poem, and I wandered through words about wings or dreams or flight or soaring. I finally figured it out: it's ‘Memorial de Isla Negra’; Pablo Neruda talking about beginning to write poetry:
...and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and I suddenly saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open...
I love that idea of coming to words, bare and unaffected, and also the notion of 'forgotten wings' - I was recently struck by someone making the point that if you ask a group of four year olds "Who here can draw?" every hand shoots up with confidence; but by aged twelve, they've come to believe something entirely different about themselves.
And that's such a loss.
