Angels flight in early morn, Care for those hurt and forlorn.

Three in all depart that day, to travel over a surging bay.

Heaven from earth, not one could tell, as Satan’s hand rose from fitful hell.

To pull from the sky, the Angels Three, and drag them into the angry sea.

Trumpets sound, loud and clear, call from rest, those far and near.

Upon the shore, the gathering, to search the depths for feathered wing.

As they pry them from Satan’s grip, we mourn the Three, the fateful trip.

And comfort the widows as they cry, knowing the lost, forever fly.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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