It is not an angel
it is a poet

He has no wings
only a right hand
covered by feathers

he beats the air with his hand
flies up three inches
and immediately falls again

when he has fallen all the way
he kicks with his legs
hangs for a moment
waving his feathered hand

oh if he could break from the gravity of clay
he would dwell in the stars’ nest
he would leap from ray to ray
he would---

but at the thought
they would be the earth for him
the stars
fall down in fright

the poet shades his eyes
with his feathered hand

he no longer dreams of flight
but of a fall
that draws like lightning
a profile of infinity
Zbigniew Herbert