Poetry of the Angels

The angel’s color on the edge of early morning clouds is like a first tender “Let there be.” One creative heart beats in the sound of the wind and the murmur of our blood. Leaves on the trees protect the bones from too much nakedness. The Word is broken into a firm step, into supple limbs, into a creative conscience, into a tentative chamber of the heart. Voices of becoming sound beneath the snow. My sight is from their light; my ear awakens with their sound. I am the poetry of the angels.

Poetry by feeling. Weaving a fabric embroidered with crystals, in which wings can be reflected. All loveliness has its origin in the will to create. What nascent world arises out of me? Which colors should be even more beautiful? Beauty is a bridge. My bridge, my color, my suffering, my heart, my active eyes, my how, my decision. Under your wings, our intuitions play together. In you, I am a becoming word.

This came as an echo after working with a small group last October, from the perspective of feeling, on Rudolf Steiner’s mantric verses from the esoteric class of the School for Spiritual Science. A quintessence out of this work was the thought: “the human being is a becoming poem.”

Translation Laura Liska
Photo Stefan Pangritz

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