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Sometimes an angel sings right in my ear,
A rose-scented song of rapturous flight;
Some saints last holy prayer to god
Before sailing through clouds, into the pure light.
Sometimes a devil has the hold of me;
Whispers cruel things, the sad day long
As I look in vain above opaque clouds
For any slight trace of the miracle song.
Dying saints and angels wings
Are things from another realm;
If I must be formed anew; remade,
Please let it be in that same kiln.
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