The prophets have perished in the wilderness
And the angels with drooping wings
Are marched in a column
And gathered in market places.
Soon they will be tried.
They will be asked: what sin
Has banished them from heaven?
What guilt? What treason? What trespass?
They, with a last love,
Bedimmed with sleep, will look at us
And will not pluck up enough devilish courage
Just to confess that angels fall
Not for their sins, not for their sins,
But from mere weariness.
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