Abraham and the Three Angels
by Marc Chagall
They all have tired mouths
and bright, seamless souls.
And a yearning, as for sin,
drifts at times through their dreams.
They mostly resemble each other.
In the garden of God they are silent,
like rest-notes
in his music and his might.
Only when they spread their wings,
do they stir the air—
as if God with wide sculptor's hands
were turning pages
in the hidden book of first things.
Book of Images
When is it they spread their wings? Where is not the garden of God? Is it in the garden of our need?
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