If an angel's made of stone
Doesn't mean her heart is too.
She sits so utterly alone
Upon a dilapidated tomb.
Her gentle face is looking up
And pleading towards heaven:
'Let me breathe life once again.
Release me from my solid prison.'
Continuously she prays in vain,
This miserable being,
Tomorrow's cycle starts again,
Time passes without meaning.
One very dark, but starry night
A shadowed creature, just as black,
Joined the angel, uninvited,
He sat behind her back to back.
He was a figure not of stone,
But nor was he of flesh and bone.
His body hunched and head in hands,
His pain, the angel understands.
He sits upon a grave and weeps,
Fouly cursing god,
From the indelible ignominy
He underwent above.
These solemn figures, deep in thought,
Unconsiously console eachother.
A mournful atmosphere aloft,
They sit leaned up, one to another...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem