The elder angels do not fly,
the elder angels do not sing,
they also are unable to lie,
yet with the truth they do not sting.
You cannot see their halo and light,
sometimes they’re not easy to recognize,
But once they get your soul in sight —
both spirit and street are tidy and nice.
You can see them by their common style.
My angel, the cleaner, talks on his mobile:
‘About the rhyme I can only say
that, as the poem goes translated
it does not want an outstanding stay
or a look of something poorly mended.
They should be rather taken as our own,
as a part of global electro-poetic field —
catching you in each single backbone.
God used poetry when this world was built.’
Than he turns to me: ‘Can I help you, darling?’
There is no way, my angel, there is no need…
I’ve no wish to discuss the eternal…
and the daily stuff does not worry me
as all around got your warmth and light.
The modern angels are human-like.