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This place is full of alien angels:
invisible angels (which are not),
infallible angels (which never fail).

Souls dedicated to the vastness of life,
of feeling.
Angels who have the smile that the purest crystal,
drops of euphoria for those who fail to seize your heart with joy to expel as a ray of light.

And go away and the taste that remains is absent.
And go away and the taste that remains is pure and true absence.
And remember ...
the memory that remains is a melancholy world ethereal frozen in time and a enceguecedor, shining and spotless white without any stain that could overshadow this beauty.

Yes, there are angels living among us the lucky ones,
helping miserable that even that absence does not learn or understand.

Yes, there are angels living
and recently saw one take its wings and take flight.
He had old faces, hands and suffering from the most sincere smile that the powder could not hide the years, impassive eyes and breathing slowly giving the calm of knowing that everything done is tied up and was good.

Yes, there are angels,
and although their names are not epic if they do their acts.

And I saw the angel asked for my and mine before leaving to the land where there is no ground
and even sordid and a storm of weeping callerid suspended from the top, in his farewell knew deliver all that is not enough, for those who understood and knew how to love in silence.

There is no doubt for me, there are angels watching my pain and that of my own.
There are angels living.

In memory of my grandmother,
Bertha Lina Castrillon.

Written by kmilo Published in: Poetry No Comments » 01 July 2008

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