Angels
L
Leo Yankevich
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They all have mouths that tire,
bright souls that have no seams.
And longing (for sin's mire)
passes through their dreams.
Almost alike they stride,
silent beneath the Tree,
like intervals inside
great God's grand symphony.
But when one of them rages,
spread wings set tempests spinning,
as if God, sculpting ages,
huge-handed, leafed through pages,
the dark book of beginning.
after Rainer Maria Rilke
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