Angels are neither light nor shadow,
but traverse both.
They bear all the weight of the universe
but are lighter than a mote of hydrogen.
Angels take the shape of dragons,
wolves and primodial beasts,
yet they are also given to be a suckling's breast
and childlike laughter.
They are the earth and the stars
that rise above the night.
But we do not trod on angels
nor sleep beneath their wings.
Angels are but imaginaries.
They are as real and hard
as music,
or a frescoed wall,
or a footstep in the dark.
They are a bare passing
that sometimes,
just sometimes.
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