Richard

There are four little renacentist angels teared up above my shelf. A nice way of being
thrown into a new Autumn, molding a new pre-life that, tangled between the divine bowels,
aim to a prosperous future.
That was some months ago...They felt from heaven to lay down exactly by my pipeline. I was
wakened in the middle of the dawn with soft whimpers and a whisper of brand new wings with smell
of fresh meat. Tiny beige feathers spreaded over my roof.
One by one, were rescued, and feed. I gave them toasts and milk, not knowing which diet
those reclaimed little saints should follow, it seemed, at that moment, a banquet worth of
their purity (now it causes me some questioning).
At morning, they hummed long Latin canticles. They smelled like newly cut grass, or even the
humid scent that goes before the rain. They all had an astonishingly bright skin, like it could
reflect all day long.
As the weeks went by, healed of all injuries the fall gave them, they could even adventure themselves
in brief flights along the corridor, filling the house with their childish laughs... And one day,
that annoyed me.
The inexorable beauty of sanctity on those tiny winged creatures became disturbing, and gradually,
those faces, formerly so symmetrical and soft became dreadfully distorted.
They were flying unhinged over my head...Landing like vultures.
No more beautiful canticles...Those were now screams, of horror and threats. Their skin so white,
grayish, they now reflecting my own sins for entire days.

The fascination is gone.

The pure cannot be exposed for too long...Perhaps the pure can't even feed its own magnitude,
which forms itself.

Today, finally the Autumn begun. Dried yellow feathers dance harmoniously in my yard, along with
the wind.

The beauty seems atrocious to me.