Why wouldn’t they drop by, stare up
approvingly at the point of the minaret?
Perpetual connoisseurs of the loving work
of centuries, the stacked stones, nails pounded
until synagogues, temples, shrines
little houses of worship rise from the land.
Taking seats on a nearby bench,
they feel the satisfying fatigue of temporary
bodies, become like quiet luminarias, lit
by inner flames, their paper walls aglow.
Before them they contemplate a clot
of shouting children (Muslim, Jewish, Christian).
Nike toes dig at the soccer ball and chase it
in a muscular blur over cobblestones.
The angels can’t help wondering what
will these little ones become?
How will they treat each other?
What will they say, if their rolling ball
ever finds the universal goal?
Meanwhile, inside the hall, the learned one
revisits the Holy Prophet, the cave
the tight embrace of Gabriel.
Heartbreakingly beautiful rugs
await the coming collapse of bodies,
the enunciation of most urgent prayers.
The angels in unison nod their approval,
and as the ball of history bullets past,
they tell themselves, yes, so it must be.
Albert Haley is a writer in residence and a professor of English at Abilene Christian University in Texas.
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