“All was taken away from you: white dresses, <br />wings, even existence. <br />Yet I believe in you, <br />messengers.” <br />—Czeslaw Milosz <br /> <br />They say you don’t exist, <br />that when you come at night, <br />it is the curtain, light <br /> <br />upon my trembling wrist, <br />that saves me from despair, <br />that it is I who bear <br /> <br />the burden; I who pull <br />the trigger; I who wrest <br />the pistol from my chest. <br /> <br />They say you can’t console <br />and that in truth I stride <br />alone without a guide. <br /> <br />I don't know even now <br />as wind blows through the curtain <br />and hope begins to burgeon, <br />who touched my lowered brow.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tobias-to-his-angel/
