Do all angels need glasses?
Do they limp?
Maybe they have smelly feet
To be washed by our father Abe.
Our atmosphere bends God's word.
If we soar on eagle's wings
We pass through clouds.
Touching is always a connection
And sometimes a crime.
Blessings are curses refined.
Angels sometimes have to take the stairs
And, going up or down blindfolded, grope us
So they won’t lose their way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem