Surrounding you are angels,
They are there to guide your path,
If weakness overcomes you,
They’ll give you strength if you will ask.
They are your protection
When life seems too hard to bear,
And though you feel alone at times,
The angels … they are there.
Their faces may be hidden
And their voices you might not hear,
But they are ALWAYS with you,
Through your laughter or your tears.
They’ll walk along beside you,
They’ll guide your steps along the way,
They’ll comfort you and hold you,
Protect you night and day.
They’ll hold to your hand tightly,
They’ll not ever let it go,
And they’ll gently lead you forward,
Taking each step very slow.
For even as you slumber,
They watch closely over you;
They are there beside you
In each and every thing you do.
When life is overwhelming,
And your spirit has grown tired,
Know they’ll be there for you,
To uplift and to inspire.
And when you’re torn and lonely,
And you see no hope ahead,
Know that they will nourish you,
Your spirit will be fed.
And if there comes a time in life
That your heart has been broken,
Hear the words, “I’m here, my child,”
And know your angel has spoken.
For even in the darkest hour,
When all of hope seems gone,
They’ll give you strength to live your life,
And desire to go on.
And if your faith in Heaven,
Should ever fade away,
They’ll help renew your spirit,
And help you find your way.
Even though you’re ever filled with doubt,
About the life you live,
Know that they are there to give you
All that they can give.
For you see, the Father sent them,
Because to Him, you mean so much,
That He sent them “just for you,” my friend,
And your life, they will touch.
They will always be here,
They will “never” leave your side;
And upon their strength and guidance,
You always may rely.
Take comfort in their guidance,
Draw strength from up above,
And know that their sweet presence,
Is God’s precious gift of love.
The abandoned campus,empty brick buildings and early June when you came to visit me; crossing the states midway, the straggled belts of little roads; hitchhiking with your portable typewriter. The campus, an academy of trees, under which some hand, the wind’s I guess, had scattered the pale light of thousands of spring beauties, petals stained with pink veins; secret, blooming for themselves. We sat among them. Your long fingers, thin body, and long bones of improbable genius; some scattered gene as Kafka must have had. Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.That simple that was myself, half conscious, as though each moment was a page where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type struck against the moving ribbon. The light air, the restless leaves; the ripple of time warped by our longing.There, as if we were painted by some unknown impressionist.
.Life is not about being hardworking, diligence and the related struggles,but more about making the right choices.