“All was taken away from you: white dresses,
wings, even existence.
Yet I believe in you,
messengers.”
—Czeslaw Milosz
They say you don’t exist,
that when you come at night,
it is the curtain, light
upon my trembling wrist,
that saves me from despair,
that it is I who bear
the burden; I who pull
the trigger; I who wrest
the pistol from my chest.
They say you can’t console
and that in truth I stride
alone without a guide.
I don't know even now
as wind blows through the curtain
and hope begins to burgeon,
who touched my lowered brow.
Leo Yankevich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tobias-to-his-angel/
