The angel starts, the angel stops.
It is said that music paints brighter
faces but music doesn’t paint.
shut-eyed hear them
playing the strings of time with their toes.
Joy is the breath of a man who died once.
Joy is the breath of a man who lives.
I heard the angel start and I heard him stop.
Heard silence like we see
pure in its echo of lesser things,
echoing never speaking a lesser thing:
I saw the white silence and I knew His voice,
knew Him when the angel was silent.