Folk Scene

On a heap amidst thistles,
on coal, soggy from rains,
two angels dwell:

they wax each other’s wings,
they kiss each other’s eyes,
awaiting Christmas.

Near them – a lovely infant,
and no one can guess
who’s guarding whom?

Is the infant guarding angels, or
do white-winged ones watch the child,
leaping, aiming for heaven?

What can white angels do
on this black soil? crush coal
or weep into blue skies?

Each angel would carry the baby
into heaven’s garden any moment,
God does not will it . . .

On a heap of discarded Christmas trees,
and dirty orange peels,
on the frozen grass –

two angels and an infant
clutching a Christmas carol in its fist,
Christmas has gone.

FOLK SCENE