- Nico Redelinghuys 3 September 2001
Why do Angels Then.....
Why do Angels then
go out and sing Hallelujah?
And why do they Praise
and Love and Worship?
Why, then, do Angels
only cry when we have rain?
And then we can’t see them
behind those dark clouds.
Are they the supposed silver lining?
Why do Angels have gardens
where humans dare not see?
And where are Angels not allowed
to tread, in fear of what or who?
Why do Angels then
only appear to the Blessed,
the Sanctified or the Chosen
and why am I not one?
Why do Angels
know of chocolates and red roses
but won’t take them away from us
when they know that we give ourselves
to those who give them unto us?
Why, then, do Angels
have the power of literacy
and can read every word here written
but pretend not to understand my pain.
Why do Angels make music
-music soothes even the savage beast -
but they keep their songs silent
when humans are near?
Why, then, do Angels
allow love to be a weapon of hurt
and a device of suffering -
a wrench to clamp around the heart -
and make me wish I was dead?
Why do Angels
not come when I need them
and why, oh why,
won’t they rather love me?
Why do Angels then
go out and sing Hallelujah?
And why do they Praise
and Love and Worship?
Why, then, do Angels
only cry when we have rain?
And then we can’t see them
behind those dark clouds.
Are they the supposed silver lining?
Why do Angels have gardens
where humans dare not see?
And where are Angels not allowed
to tread, in fear of what or who?
Why do Angels then
only appear to the Blessed,
the Sanctified or the Chosen
and why am I not one?
Why do Angels
know of chocolates and red roses
but won’t take them away from us
when they know that we give ourselves
to those who give them unto us?
Why, then, do Angels
have the power of literacy
and can read every word here written
but pretend not to understand my pain.
Why do Angels make music
-music soothes even the savage beast -
but they keep their songs silent
when humans are near?
Why, then, do Angels
allow love to be a weapon of hurt
and a device of suffering -
a wrench to clamp around the heart -
and make me wish I was dead?
Why do Angels
not come when I need them
and why, oh why,
won’t they rather love me?