Angels perched, crying tears of milk
their songs like lullabies, soft as velvet,
while the prophets are laying asleep.
An angel peeps between his fingers,
porcelain skin, almost broken, as he lights
A prophet sings a melody of praise
and angels sing a melancholy dirge
while prophets are seeking the saints.
The saint, the saint is at his prayer,
as the twain of heaven meet.
At the chapel door, when evening comes,
four angels of the eight
whom angel and disciple know
answer the will of God.
Saint Mary, with the glass in her hand,
When the angel came to ask her:
Would she like it?