No one sings as purely as those who inhabit the deepest hell
–what we take to be the song of angels is their song.
― Franz Kafka
Awakening from a Dream
In the night, the feathery fists came raining down
He ducked and staggered as they landed, again and again,
On his head, neck and across his shaking back
There was no avoiding this relentless retribution
Could it be, these were the familiar hands of his angels
The same strong ones that, throughout his wrong life,
Carried him through innumerable hardships
Cushioning him from nearly crushing falls
The blows continued to hammer down and he ceased
Trying to avoid what he knew to be his due
Accrued through dismissed warnings and failed promises
He could begin to hear the beating of wings, now
Recognizing, with slow wonder, these fans were also his own
They flapped, like weak devotions, in the dark to shield him
Accompanied by intermittent flashes of a soft blue light
Illuminating the proud army of his divine tormentors.
— Yahia Lababidi, author of Learning to Pray
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