There are angels there really are angels

dressed in jackets in out-of-fashion dresses

they sit at a table drink beer chat

yawn go to bed late

and there in the wardrobe a white wing rests

They don’t feel disgust at the dead

at their toil and sweat

because to die is as hard as to pull a plough in spring

In a doctor’s white coat they bend over the ill

and to the old they say Well you have to accept it all

In halos of baldness in braids of gray

they pretend sometimes to be a priest who cries alone

with forehead resting on a table

Suddenly they call out a poet’s word

their high voice pushes its way through a symphony

and they die young in place of those who don’t want to die

or disappear suddenly from under the surgeon’s knife

The anesthetist runs shouts Tie up the veins

but they’re already far

already in heaven

and only a cloud rustles nearby only a cloud rustles

There are angels there really are angels

they catch every sound idea with the fishing-rod of intelligence

and from pails full of truth pour a bit for good luck

they bake cake poach fish in white wine

they like good jokes

the whites of their eyes shine with laughter

and we don’t know whether in a moon-bound vehicle

one won’t on the sly squeeze into a space suit

Their calves are too strong as in Flemish paintings

they are corporeal like pale oxen at the stream

but a fiercely kind force is in them

a friendly breeze billows their robes

They sit quietly in a waiting room at the dentist

in an empty chair and are the last to enter

A long silence trails behind them

that’s how you can recognize there are angels