Today a star died and fell from heaven. It dropped into my outstretched arms. I could see it was filled with love. It was the love of a hundred angels.
In the time before time itself, the angels would cry out against their masters' injustices. For this, they were punished and their wings torn. They wept and fell from the heavens, leaving behind them nothing but a trail of bitter hope.
Then when time began, the planets breathed. Those angels who could not speak, collected their fallen brothers' remains from the skies. They gathered their lost hope into a hundred small mounds in their masters' gardens.
When the suns ran red and the moons bled silver, the rabid wind blew.
It blew over the mute angels.
It blew against their wingless brothers' skin.
It blew over the masters' gardens.
The flightless angels still weep.
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