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Angel
He is a soul of frost.
He sits upon the scaffold—Michael, the executioner.
He is the substitute for the world.
Reach out your hand,
And there lies nothing—Nichts.
Those who try to believe
Fade away.
Where is he going?
Or where does he intend to go?
A legion of soldiers clad in copper,
Marching forward.
With just a taste of success,
That place becomes a radiant city of rainbows.
Though we know it cannot be easily attained,
Still, we create angels—new values—
Again today.
