by Nepomuk Ullman

​

This angel

​

Out of the foliage

of a wounded soul

unfinished

and like a violin

fall ripened offerings

and give the forms

of wings

to a foreign lineage

of maimed eyes of fear

in the glance spreads its thorns

​

only in the pain of parting

the angel discovers the world

without rest the hours go

and prepare the buds

of darkness

like mealy density towards new heights

​

an angel

with a shoot

with nakedness shining through

as a new aphrodite

who in hiding forms her breast

yet shines

in the room of poor people

​

lavishly

pain and agony

also commerate

how love 

makes the earth fertile

this angel

this star of the poor

enveloped in thender

dark coulors

and the knives

of day to day life

wells and cuts a single tear

​

the angel makes us cry

and saddens us in some hours

and yet is beautiful

like a snow-covered landscape

and life's whole pain

lives on

in its crystalline form