Scorchwinged angels,

children of the cracks –

once you too could have been

among the brightest in the firmament,

glorious in the majesty of your souls.

Once it seemed

your feet, too, were destined

for the pavements of paradise,

the splendour of your brilliance

blinding even the sun.

Once you too could have been wrapped in light!

But the whirlings of time and fate and choice

denied you destiny;

and now you float,

souls like shattered hulks

on a dark sea of grief –

the grief of this lower world, endlessly calling.

But in your eyes

still the fire, white-hot.

Comrades –

turn from your dreamlost wanderings

and hear me:

this does not have to be hell!

Remember your birthright, the gift of your being.

There’s room enough between heaven and this life of the dust

for the building of mansions,

world enough for cunning and courage and craft

to transfigure these stones.

Why turn your faces so early to death?

We may yet be, if such is our desire,

immortal still – O my brothers and sisters,

sisters and brothers,

arise.

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