The good angel
was what I loved,
those who call.
not that sweeps the heavens with no defenses,
huts without stars,
moons without a country,
snow.
Snows of those fallen from one hand,
a name,
a dream,
a brow.
not what his hair
tied the death.
What I loved.
without scratching the winds,
without leaf injury or move the crystals.
What to his mane
tied silence.
Without hurt me,
to dig a bank of soft light in his chest
soul and make the waterway.
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