I am the son of an Angel,

A free spirit wanting to learn to fly,

A spirit locked into a lump of clay,

Who finds most unacceptable

The assumption that he must never try

To break out of his bond and fly away.

I am the son of an Angel.

I am the son of an Angel,

Punished for the sins of Adam and Eve,

Condemned to trod in mud, with leg-irons,

Tied like an oxen in stable,

Made to believe, then taught to disbelieve

And made to suffer through many sojourns…

I am the son of an Angel.

I’m Man, the son of an Angel.

Patience of my spirit stretched to the full.

I find the irony utterly rich

That I’m still found accountable

For Mother Eve, tied to Mother Earth’s pull

And need to become a son of a bitch

To be true son of an Angel.

 
© P. J. Oszmann (2002. Revised 2003)