Archangel wings of prayer flow fire,
and leave us not forgotten.
Where have you come to us this moment
alighting and then fleeing to streaked heavans lost.
Why were your prophecies made to ridicule?
Why are you lost to us.
And yet you are so soon gone.
With which what and where we have
we have forsaken all.
Ribboned to ruins a rules and left
a Republic only of reminders.
Force fire and fear are our foes,
but they are our lords and masters.
From this day let me cleanse all hope illusion,
there is no life but the air I breathe,
there is no history but from these hands I make,
carved in cinder sided steles
that are the teeth of soul mountain,
whose roots run to the depths of our creation,
and have not been worn in a billion years.
They sneer upon all our epochs, depth,
as you, Archangel,
flee far upward,
leaving us behind to wonder and to gaze
at your coming and passing.
There is no life but the air I breath,
There is soul but the history carved on me
in this moment.
We must struggle now,
for not to breath is not to be.
If our voices are now lost,
then we will not have been at all.