You told me today that
“angels don’t moan – they scream”.
I looked at you and silently agreed,
remembering your hoarsened voice
from the first time
you ever visited my tomb.

I wasn’t planning to die that day,
no more than you were planning to hear me doing it,
and now I cannot erase from your ears
the scars left by the first flutter
of my suddenly grown wings,
and I cannot bear the thought
that my passing brought you no better a gift
than heavy silence.

You are right, angels don’t moan –
they just scream their light onto earth
trying to carry the solitude on their barren wings
for as long as they can.

© 2015 Liliana Negoi


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