When the boy Icarus had fallen by the wax melting off his wings ,the clocks did not stop nor did the phones stop ringing. The farmer tilled his land and the fisherman had his rod in the river . No one was looking at the sky. Nobody heard the splash.
Look there is now a sun brightly smiling on a pair of drowning legs. And the expensive ship must sail on, regardless of falling bodies .
The torturer’s horse is innocently scratching it’s behind on the tree. But it looks as if the dreadful martyrdom must run it’s course, in an untidy corner .
(Reading W. H. Auden’s poem Musee des Beaux Arts)