The streamers of damp morning light
Struggle feebly over a samurai’s blade.
Water-grass is host to a million cold cadavers;
The day after a battle dawns on naked corpses.

So tell me, O prophet:
Where walk thou angels?
Over mortars,
Machineguns
Or bayonets?

Indulge me,
May I find them above the demons
Or behind them?

He rides on a warhead’s back
He whispers to a beggar-girl
Drinking cholera water from the sewer.
He shouts to cities—your time is come!

Thickest clouds pillar the subway
And the people shed the itchy skin of life.
Tell me, where walk thou angels?
That I may anoint your feet when I see you.

She puts anger in the masses
And wrath in the simple.
Rainbows of heads fly
As if harvested from fields.

Thou angels, I am sure you are returning.
Or have you ever been before?
Where did you lose your way?