ANGELUS
NOVUS, Paul Klee, 1930/32
Last night I saw the angel in the pines,
nearly naked, shivering (icy rain
fell in torrents), her heavy wings sodden,
barred like an owl's, blown back and wide open
by merciless wind – as if hovering –
hands skin and bone, clenched talons, eyes glaring
gold. From her beautiful mouth, scorched singing:
grief and desolation, flayed bell ringing,
a body by voice cracked too far open
to ever be closed again. The sodden
branches were a wreath around her, a nest:
her owl eyes, gold, and blood wet on her breast,
this new angel, orphaned out of heaven,
into the mortal reign of history, fallen.
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