I know they are not one.
They are not even contemporaneous. Merely brought
together by chance.
They are nonetheless like one, belong together
in my eyes like the two pictures of a diptych.
Departure and arrival.
The red and gold lights of dawn, the ecstasy of hearing the word uttered,
the sunlight halo radiating from the fingers of the raised hand.
The state of creation.
Power, will, confrontation, action. As if he grabbed the axis
around which the world turns.
The cool blue of sunset.
The motionless calm of arrival.
The wings are not opened for soaring, they no longer serve
leaving the earth behind.
They mark the direction: the way is upwards.
On the figure of the prophet, the pattern of the skeleton of the mortal body.
On the body of the angel, the force lines of a crystal structure
invisible to the eye.
Calm, understanding, brightness, balance.
He no longer wants to change the world: it is he who has changed.
He has found his place.
He is the axis around which the world turns.
The one who will move on is the one he still holds in his arms.
He will set out to travel the new cycle.
He will be the new Prophet, and he may become the new Angel.