All was taken away from you: white dresses, <br />wings, even existence. <br />Yet I believe you, <br />messengers. <br /> <br />There, where the world is turned inside out, <br />a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts, <br />you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seems. <br /> <br />Short is your stay here: <br />now and then at a matinal hour, if the sky is clear, <br />in a melody repeated by a bird, <br />or in the smell of apples at close of day <br />when the light makes the orchards magic. <br /> <br />They say somebody has invented you <br />but to me this does not sound convincing <br />for the humans invented themselves as well. <br /> <br />The voice -- no doubt it is a valid proof, <br />as it can belong only to radiant creatures, <br />weightless and winged (after all, why not?), <br />girdled with the lightening. <br /> <br />I have heard that voice many a time when asleep <br />and, what is strange, I understood more or less <br />an order or an appeal in an unearthly tongue: <br /> <br />day draw near <br />another one <br />do what you can. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by sophie<br /><br />Czeslaw Milosz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-angels/
