Those who gave away their wings are sad not to see them fly.

Hear now, O seekers of remembrance and freedom, the words of Antonio Porchia, poet of the soul: “Those who gave away their wings are sad not to see them fly.” Within this single sentence lies a lifetime of wisdom—a meditation on loss, regret, and the sacred gift of human potential. Porchia, an Argentinian mystic and philosopher, wrote in fragments as though his thoughts were whispers from eternity. His book Voices (Voces, 1943) stands as a collection of quiet revelations, and this line, like a spark in the dark, speaks to all who have surrendered their dreams for comfort or fear.

The meaning of this quote is both tender and tragic. The “wings” are our gifts—our passions, hopes, and courage to soar beyond limitation. To “give them away” is to renounce the parts of ourselves that were meant to rise: our creativity, our joy, our will to be free. And when one day we look to the sky and see nothing—no flight, no motion, no beauty—sadness takes hold, for we realize that it was we who abandoned the power to ascend. It is not the loss itself that wounds the soul, but the knowledge that the wings were ours all along, and we let them go.

Porchia’s lament can be felt in the stories of countless lives. Consider the tale of Vincent van Gogh, the painter who gave his heart to art yet lived and died misunderstood. Society denied him flight in his lifetime, yet through his letters we feel that he never gave away his wings—he kept painting even in madness and sorrow. The sadness Porchia describes belongs not to those like Van Gogh, but to those who abandon their calling entirely—to the poet who stops writing, the dreamer who ceases to dream, the soul who trades meaning for ease. It is a warning whispered to all: do not let fear or cynicism persuade you to clip your own wings.

And yet, Porchia’s voice is not one of condemnation, but of compassion. His tone, though mournful, carries forgiveness—for he knew that life itself often tempts us to give up our freedom. We are told to be practical, to follow what is safe, to silence the cry within us that longs to create, to love, to take flight. But when we surrender to such pressures, we lose something far more precious than comfort—we lose the ability to feel alive. The sadness he describes is not punishment, but awakening: the soul’s grief when it remembers what it once was.

The lesson, then, is one of remembrance and courage. Guard your wings, even when the winds are harsh. Do not trade them for security or approval. Your wings may represent art, love, purpose, or spiritual truth—but whatever they are, they are sacred. To live without them is to move through life as a shadow of what you might have been. And even if you have once laid them down, do not despair—wings, though forgotten, can be found again. They may be heavy with dust, but they still remember the sky.

In the ancient world, the myth of Icarus spoke of flight and fall. Yet Porchia’s wisdom reminds us that the greater tragedy is not to fall, but never to try. Icarus soared too close to the sun and perished, but for a moment he lived as no mortal had before. Far worse are those who, fearing the heat, never leave the ground, who grow old gazing upward, wondering what might have been. It is better to fly and fall than to never feel the wind beneath your soul.

Practical wisdom flows from this reflection. Each morning, ask yourself: “What are my wings, and am I still using them?” Create something. Love someone. Speak truth. Begin again. Do not give away what is most sacred within you. And when life grows weary, remember Porchia’s words—not as lament, but as invitation—to rise again and see your own wings fly.

Thus, let his teaching echo through the ages: The saddest hearts are not those who failed, but those who surrendered the chance to soar. Keep your wings, O soul, for even in sorrow they are the promise of freedom.