The banshees wail and the women weep
but do the angels cry?
No. That is meant for lesser things:
for frightened, frail and fragile beings
who walk the earth and have not wings;
for those of us who die.

When venom’s spilt and anger’s spent
What’s left for us to give?
When wrangling wends its wrenching way
And every hurt has had its say;
With all our passions blown away
There’s little left to live.

But one small itch requires a scratch –
How can we feel at all?
What spindly spark would ever dare
To flicker against our despair
And flaming up to flourish there
Within our coldest wall?

Could this be love and constant still
And burning our tears dry?
How are we then the lesser beings
With melting warmth that loving brings
And angels have none of these things
Who cannot love or cry.