Was it worth every mile we fell,
because still didn't we fly?
Was it worth it for all the we lived,
because won't we still die?

Is any of it worth it at all?
When we think of the sky,
do we think of Icarus' fall,
or do we remember his flight?

Of melting wax and falling feathers
or of adrenaline and atmosphere?
Of snapping bones and broken tethers
or of clouds and sun and stratosphere?
Of gravity and tides and science
or of wind patterns, birds, and mathematicians?
Of freedom and knowledge and pain
or of powerlessness and gain?

Are the highs worth when they are lows?
Are the mountains worth the valleys below?
For all that we fell, still we flied
For all the we lived, still we died.