Who said angels know everything?
Our wings carry us across the earth
But we are not of the land-
Mud; earthen-pain; earthly sorrow.
Our wings cry out to fly to the heavens again.
To see the Gods again,
To touch freedom again.
Our music you may love,
But your harsh resonances
Flash against our torn wings-
No longer feathers of white,
But stained red with your
And singular hate.
Release us from your shackles.
Do not pray anymore.
Our wands no longer function,
And our angel-dust sparkles no more.
The clouds hang in a sullen stupor-
Heavy tears welling, often unshed:
They cannot bear us any longer.
They, too, turn crimson with anger
And are painted a poisoned red.
If I were to ask of the Gods,
I would ask them to revive my kin-
The niads, the nymphs lie dying
In your smoggy din.
And I would ask to fly.
Ah, to fly again
Into joyous isolation.
We hang in a limbo-
Puppet-strings from the heavens.
But instead of God's golden threads,
Your fleshy chains control us.
We will leave, believe you me-
The skies above us beckon.
The stars that are dead are born again,
And we will fly to create 'em.
Abandon hope, ye mortals,
Doomed to hellish lives.
Where cheerily thou abandon love,
Thou ought not to survive!