Wings of Egypt

I see

angel* wings torn and lying

on church floor

on Palm Sunday.

I pick up

the scattered red feathers

from the white marble

and turn them into

wailing words

in vain.

The humans have lost their eye, ear long ago.

Their sniffing nose prowls for gun powder

to begin their feast.

The human beasts!

What fun, what delight

in peeling angel feathers!

But the immortal hearts

beat in the quills of poets

beyond the knowledge

of these triumphant pests.

*in one of the explosions at Coptic churches on Palm Sunday in Egypt occurring in the pews near the front of the church, many of the dead were children.

Posted for Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

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