"Poeta" (ang.)

There once was an angel, youthful and pure,
Weaving a wreath in the gardens of blue.
Her feet once supported by fluff that surrounds,
Slipped up and fell through a breach in the clouds!
Slicing the air like Cupid’s lost arrow,
Panic she caused even with the old sparrow!
Among the branches, scattered around
Were all the feathers torn off her gown!
Her fate - as it seemed - with doom was prescribed
Yet she was saved in her last chance aflight:
Not in the smooth, paved lane was her landing
But under a terrified songwriter’s eyelid!