Wings behind the sculptor,
Hidden curve we do not see;
Sum of flight’s intention
With the shadow flying free.
Hands of alabaster,
Cloud of diamonds to the stone,
Shaped of generations
And mortalitys unknown.
Silent silver angels standing
At the urn of time,
Raising dust to magic
In the chiseled breath of mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem