We Cry But Angeles Sing Poem by Ejalonibu Abraham

We Cry But Angels Sing

The day ends, night tumbles
The swamp is frigid,
Clouds like ashes
Red sun twinkles
Town windows flicker blushing.
Ah, smashed is the golden kettle!
The spirit drifted perpetually!
Let the bell toll! - a saintly
soul floats on the south river
The door has been blasted
For fun And perished miserably
Unbearable pain throughout
The body's fabric
The thoughtful and soft existing
Through the brutal excitement
The roar of the artillery shall be my knell,
And tears about you are fruitiness.

We cry but the patrons sing,
They sing of the death of the royalty king.
The ashes they rise,
From the darkness inside.
Trees in blazes from whispers of suicide.

Through aircraft highways,
He wings his instant flight
To moral nations of cosmic light
From grief and groan to a golden throne,
besides the King of Heaven!

Good night.