My angel Zosia
washes her wings in a washing machine every evening
Hungs them carefully
above a kitchen stove
on a nail sticked into the wall
Hungs an aureole
And so humanely
combs her hair in front of the mirror
Every morning she gets up as everyone
Puts on the outfit
Calls to God from the phone box
and argues about somebodys future
When she returns tired
she asks about the dinner
and looks into pots kissing my shoulder
Angel never falls down
Devil falls down so low that he will never be able to rise
Human falls and rises

F. Dostojewski