Like cotton puffs of white the clouds float by on cyan skies,
the lamb fur hassock of the angels praying in the skies.

Their occupancy hidden but for subtle clues for eyes,
a shadow in the cloud reveals an angel in the skies.

Their bows are permanent, their heads fall once but do not rise,
the stillness of the clouds betray the angels in the skies.

Their motionless prostration is their very best disguise,
creating doubt upon the earth of angels in the skies.

What of the consciousness of those in tombs we all surmise
have fled to scenes beyond the eyes among the clouds of skies?

Where are the shadows of their seats?  Despite our many tries,
we see none in their names we find cloud-written in the skies.

I call to those who've left too soon, their names among my cries.
Their answers whisper in the hiss of rain from cloudy skies.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos