An angel leaves his wings
on the top of the watch-tower,
they crumble and flow downwards
like flakes of snow.
A demon leaves his wings
at the base of the watch-tower,
they amass, don't rise upwards,
but, like threaded mist, spread low.
A human weaves his wings
from mist and snow,
grey wings, with subdued resplendence
and ashen glow.
They keep him above the dust
and below the crushing lips of stars,
not too light to be forgotten,
not too dark to become a burden.
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