Septic Flesh

A stranger once whispered:
A fallen angel is someone not aware of his authentic identity
Because the fall occured nowhere except on the inner plains
And the broken wing was nothing but the bleeding memory
The creators of the prophecies
Have seen pages yet unturned
From a book that can not be turned
Or expressed from mouths of scorn
Observing the divine marriage
Between the solid soil and the ether
Step on the lightnings and ascend
On the topmost step of the earth
Stepping on the belt that surrounds the sphere
Endless are the joys of the infinite quest