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Neither the weightiness of bronze,
Nor the density of marble or alabaster
Have any grasp for those intangible creatures.

They are only empty shells,
Ephemeral carapaces,
Projection of their ideal
In a matter for us more accessible,
Translation of their ethereal nature
For our coarse senses.

And if bad weather erode them,
If their wings are falling,
Weary of having not taken flight,
If their eyes fade of our indifference,
They resign themselves to it,
Inaccessible to that too material decay.

For in them always remains the strength
To protect and to bless us,
Like an intrinsic need
So few paid in return.

They look questioningly at us
With soothing, looking away or straight eyes
They don’t judge, nor assess us
Are only open on us
With patience and resignation
As if nothing mattered.

And making them blow into imaginary horns
soundly cradles us,
even though we are really incapable
of hearing their celestial music.

But they do not hold it against us,
For they drink in the chalice of Time
And they know too well we are only going back to dust,
While they will flutter forever
Beyond our human understanding.