The angel's wings are drying on the line.
Her conspecifics rise in ragged files
Of flakes of gold above the summer lake,
But she sleeps in the short grass some fool mowed
And dreams of coming wholly down to earth,
Trivial entertainment for a soul
Composed of costumes, confusion, and truth.
Winds off the lake stir her wings on the line,
Their secret that they know they've been defiled
By flying gold to the sun from the lake.
They're so grateful to be laundered that they glow
With the mystery of clouds brought to earth.
Such wings are things with thoughts, without a soul,
Needing neither any angel nor truth.
Her conspecifics rise in ragged files
Of flakes of gold above the summer lake,
But she sleeps in the short grass some fool mowed
And dreams of coming wholly down to earth,
Trivial entertainment for a soul
Composed of costumes, confusion, and truth.
Winds off the lake stir her wings on the line,
Their secret that they know they've been defiled
By flying gold to the sun from the lake.
They're so grateful to be laundered that they glow
With the mystery of clouds brought to earth.
Such wings are things with thoughts, without a soul,
Needing neither any angel nor truth.
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