a pint of real ale
the Angel who'd been holding aloft a screen
beyond the furthest galaxies
or just about as far as man could dream
in the pub car-park
had rolled it up
and stood it against the wall
is that all it is
pinpricks of light
half a pint still in his glass
the Angel let pass
more tiresome questions about unfathomable things
just sat
framed by an arched window
making slight quivery movements with his wings
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem