I have seen an angel, wearing one of its broken wings, crying, holding the pen to write but had nowhere to translate his writing. In the other hand, he held his wounded soul, as if the heart vanished in silence, I wanted to know if it was pain or the fact of not being able to fly or write sad, I went to see him and I saw with stupor, that I looked like.
The angel is not sad, just lay as a spring inside because he is not allowed to fall from heaven.
An angel cries, when the light of the soul has gone out when a wing has broken and we are condemned to walk among mortals when it changes its brightness to embrace and surrender its life.
An angel weeps when love has gone and the fast-flowing river has dried up of innocence, of beauty, of the subtlety of the enamored soul, seeing the legs of the mired souls who have lost the gift of walking, between stanzas of poetry, that they have lost the gift of opening their hearts, to the love that lives hidden among stories, between stories and prophecies, they have lost their amazement and surprise, they have lost the gift of love.
An angel cries, when love has gone to oblivion when the hooting of the wind cannot overcome the deep silence of a love that has departed or a friendship disguised as deception.
An angel cries knowing that someone has left, walking after other steps on a lost path, dressed in mourning because his mission and reason for existence are over.
Losing a wing, only means, becoming human and not being able to love, forgetting how to dream, what love is like and how it is to truly love, from the depths of the soul, without letting ourselves be embraced.
Therefore, in a distant path, where dream and reality come together, where dreams of past lives become future realities, there, where the name awaits perennial, where the light baggage becomes, where the word floats and the letters spill beyond the dream of dreams itself, on the threshold of the crow that perches on the lintel, beyond the mortal body and soul, where beings and ghosts are one, forgetful of journeys and captive souls, in the secluded corner, hidden obscurity that seizes, where the wind and the mist listen silences and the crowd in lost dawns, in your memory that lathe, smoke of molten ash, in the desperate cry, oppression of vague prejudices, in the muddied mind, poisons of tormented blood, beyond name and disorder, in normal sanity of madness, on the other side of this masquerade, hiding unbridled passions.
There, distant lands of blessed insolence, in wind and fire, air and smoke, in the dream of dreams.
There and only there, I will find the name of an Angel with broken wings.
