We live in a land of hurt,

a land of pain,

a land of passing.

Its throat is burnt,

its face is plain,

its lungs are gasping.

Sweep it off

and ignore the beast 

that titters when we

shunt our eyes.

We can't bear a scoff 

so it's come to feast.

How, again, do angels flee?

Downward, steadfast on aching skies.