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An Angel

August 13, 2019

St. Mark Chapel


You proclaim that you have been awoken out of a deep sleep,

And that you are called to the meadow,

For the sound of the flute and piccolo has reached your ears.

So, joyously you arise and run to the meadow where there is dancing and rejoicing.


But I proclaim that you were not called to the meadow,

And that it was not the flute and the piccolo that caused you to awaken,

But rather it was the bassoon and oboe that you heard playing.

And it was not to the meadow but to the forest that you were called,

And it was a funeral dirge that you heard, and not a joyous tune.


Standing in the meadow now you are uncertain

For no more are you sure this is the place to which you are called,

For looking closer you see that demons have donned beautiful wings,

And the butterflies have turned into serpents that slither across the grass.


Therefore, you have fled from the meadow,

And have entered the forest which is a dark place, and the air is cold.

But do you not see why the forest is the safer place?

It is because here things are what they seem,

And demons are seen clearly where they lurk among the trees,

And the butterflies have found shelter in the thick grass,

And the serpents capture them not. 


You awaken and desire to find rest and refreshment in the meadow,

But the meadow is only an appearance of good,

And underneath the ground there is a fire burning,

And the stench of sulfur reaches into the meadow.


In the meadow there is the sound of the flute and the piccolo,

And the lyrics of the song are, “All is well.” 

But the grass is burning hotter, and the soles of your feet begin to burn.

You awaken and wish not to go into the forest,

For the music grates on your ears, and it is dark and cold. 

But here all that is seen is what truly is,

And the serpents are easily caught, and crushed underneath your feet.


Darkness seems the frightening option, but if you walk with courage into it,

Then you will soon see that the sun has risen, and that the serpents are dead,

And the butterflies flit from flower to flower.

While in the meadow the people dance

Until the ground has become too hot on which to stand,

And men are pulled into the fire, captured by the demons in disguise,

And the serpents spew dead butterflies from their mouths.

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