Angels

He's dressed in black, dark as night,

He has barbed wire all over his scythe.

Everyone’s afraid of catching his sight,

Yet no one questions his ancient might.

No one questions it, but some may oppose,

When Death creeps and for prey he prowls.

In the forest or the meadow - he isn't picky,

Doesn't delay, the Harvester acts quickly.

"I'm hit!" - the cry fills the barren fields,

As the Reaper pursues, then suddenly yields:

Who wants to compete with Death himself,

And offer another soul to his crowded shelf?

A guardian of light, with the shield of hope,

She is a trench medic, not the holy Pope.

Through smoke and sorrow she makes her way,

The Reaper's chilly breath shall not prevail.

The red cross shines on her dirty helmet,

As she wraps the wounded in tender velvet.

Spread your weathered wings and fly further!

Many strive to touch the solace of the healer.

Szilágyi Ákos   X. R