There is a poet in Germany who made some beautiful poetry. His name is Rudolf Otto Wiemer.
One piece is called "Angels". This is the translation I tried to manage:
They must not be men with wings to fly,
the angels.
They walk silent, not ready to cry,
the angels.
They often are old and ugly and shy,
the angels.
They got no sword and no shirt of white brand,
the angels.
maybe there´s one, reaching your hand
or lives right besides you, where your walls stand,
the angel.
The hungry ones he has brought bred,
the angel.
The sick ones he has made the bed
and listens to tears you have shed,
the angel.
He stands on the road, and he says: No way,
the angel.
Tall like a post and hard like a stone you could say -
They must not be men with wings to fly,
the angels.
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