A consequence of childish games
endowed me with a certain gift
for making paper aeroplanes.
I fashioned them to soar and lift,
and twist on flimsy wings of white
and glide with graceful ease of flight.
Alas! It makes me weep to say
my single talent has no worth,
for gravity must win the day.
The planes like me are held by earth.
Through eyes of Icarus I see,
the key to endless flight is this -
a scheme of pure simplicity:
just throw one at the ground...
by Stephen Hirons
Read the story behind this poem
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