The angels, with their folded wings
walk on silent ground
They know not whether
to weep,
or wield their sighing harps.
It seems like hearts are stones,
or jewels would they be?
Precious gems, maybe.
Of different hues,
with scattered light.
Encrusted, unpolished
by time and tears,
by things spoken and not. ...
The angels, moving forward--
with their timid halos
and shorn heads-
their soles
touching sacred ground.