ANGELS, quadro di PREMA, Norvegia. ANGEL, poesia di AERONWY THOMAS, UK

(copyright dell'artista)



Clogging up the skies

Wings flapping on takeoff

Wind Gale Force Angel

A gentle breeze on the cheek.

They descend in a crowd

So near there’s hardly room

For all of us.

Soon you’ll be an angel

I think they whisper.

The sky’s overcongested

I object

Irritated by feathers.

When you’re really good

You go straight to heaven,

For a comfy cloud

Angels by invitation only.

Not a chance

Says the gravely voice

Behind my shoulder.

The air thins of angels

Gets distinctly warm

Palatial accommodation

Unencumbered fire for skies

He offers.

Do what you want

No penance down

Where I preside

The heat’s always on.

Him upstairs

Too fussy about intent

Even if you repent

Lies the dark angel

Paying me a visit

Last minute.

Lifting my arms

Little feathers grow

I shoot up like

A rocket

All the angels “tut-tutting”

Road Hog they shout

In musical tones

As I make my choice

And shoot Heavenwards

(God willing).



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