Angels sit on pins
and flap white wings
without an eyeblink
of passing time.
Angels walk barefoot
through satin mud
and emerge with clean
lily-odored feet.
Angels wear silk robes
with gold and amber crewel
with no sweat guards
or basement laundry.
I'm old, gilded with sweat,
perfumed in garlic and grease,
sprawled on a clump of sheets,
more alive than any angel.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice interpretation of what angels do Martha! Oh if it were true! ! ! lol 10 from flutter by Tai