Besides the flower slaughterhouse, in the left ventricle
of the city of joy, there is a room with 100 beds, 100 plastic wrapped
Angels come here to die.
Their wings are broken, they are as light as melodies.
They look at me as i run.
They look at me like the sun.
They could fly to the blue sky, but before they leave us with our heavy
earth, they pack up love.
They store up smiles, tenderness and our rude ways of telling them that
they are important.
Sometimes their bodies leave before them, sometimes they go back to the
belly of the earth, they return to fetus life, take 9 month to die, sometimes
they don't even weight anything anymore.
Even angels are scared to die.
So light as if they disappear, they don't know how to fly anymore, Auschwitz
ghost, lonely holocaust.
No one cries, no one to cry to, nowhere to die, taar seagulls white in
black loneliness, holy gas in dead sea, they go backward, make a false
turn and tilt. Lost feathers.
No one should die alone.
Broken angels, lost arrow, don't know how to fly.
Broken arrow, lost angel doesnÍt know how to die.
100 beds, 100 batteries, 100 broken wings, 100 heavy clouds.
There is an angel in love with you.