Where are our golden robes of angels? We can no longer put them on.
Now they’re left rotting in the cellar; we’re forsaken, walking ‘lone.
We have devoured so shamelessly the myriads of stainless souls.
The bodies lie on cliffs, decaying; their wounds are now the gaping holes.
Now heaven gates are shut for us; stupendous skies above have closed.
The Savior is our tormenter, and all the hope for us is lost.
Don’t seek the golden dream you’ve seen last night; it won’t come again.
I could have reached you shadow on my bedroom wall, but now I can't.
The time has little mole-like eyes; it can’t distinguish whom it kills.
Some tear their wings away; some fly into night from their windowsills.
But the coveted day will come, and our screams will surely cease.
The bags of skin and meat and bone will fall apart, and we’ll decease.
The Golden Robes of Angels
© Copyright: Ханан Варни, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117020804593
Свидетельство о публикации №117020804593
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