The angel was the only one who took no part in his own act.
He spent his time trying to get comfortable in his borrowed nest, befuddled by the hellish heat of the oil lamps and sacramental candles that had been placed along the wire.
At first they tried to make him eat some mothballs, which, according to the wisdom of the wise neighbor woman, were the food prescribed for angels.
But he turned them down, just as he turned down the papal lunches that the pentinents brought him, and they never found out whether it was because he was an angel or because he was an old man that in the end ate nothing but eggplant mush. His only supernatural virtue seemed to be patience.
Especially during the first days, when the hens pecked at him, searching for the stellar parasites that proliferated in his wings, and the cripples pulled out feathers to touch their defective parts with, and even the most merciful threw stones at him, trying to get him to rise so they could see him standing.
The only time they succeeded in arousing him was when they burned his side with an iron for branding steers, for he had been motionless for so many hours that they thought he was dead. He awoke with a start, ranting in his hermetic language and with tears in his eyes, and he flapped his wings a couple of times, which brought on a whirlwind of chicken dung and lunar dust and a gale of panic that did not seem to be of this world. Although many thought that his reaction had not been one of rage but of pain, from then on they were careful not to annoy him, because the majority understood that his passivity was not that of a hero taking his ease but that of a cataclysm in repose.
The angel was the only one who took no part in his own act. He spent his time trying to get comfortable in his borrowed nest, befuddled by the hellish heat of the oil lamps and sacramental candles that had been placed along the wire. At first they tried to make him eat some mothballs, which, according to the wisdom of the wise neighbor woman, were the food prescribed for angels. But he turned them down, just as he turned down the papal lunches that the pentinents brought him, and they never found out whether it was because he was an angel or because he was an old man that in the end ate nothing but eggplant mush. His only supernatural virtue seemed to be patience. Especially during the first days, when the hens pecked at him, searching for the stellar parasites that proliferated in his wings, and the cripples pulled out feathers to touch their defective parts with, and even the most merciful threw stones at him, trying to get him to rise so they could see him standing. เวลาที่พวกเขาประสบความสำเร็จในความเขาได้เมื่อพวกเขาเขียนด้านข้างของเขา ด้วยการสร้างตราสินค้าสำเร็จ เตารีดสำหรับเขาได้นิ่งสำหรับเพื่อหลายชั่วโมงที่พวกเขาคิดว่า เขาตาย เขาตื่นขึ้นมา ด้วยการเริ่มต้น ranting ในภาษาของเขา hermetic และน้ำตาในดวงตาของเขา และเขา flapped ปีกสองครั้ง ซึ่งนำลมมูลไก่ และฝุ่นดวงจันทร์และการล่าเกลของตกใจที่ไม่ได้ดูเหมือนจะเป็นของโลกนี้ แม้ว่าหลายคนคิดว่า ปฏิกิริยาของเขาไม่ได้หนึ่ง ของความโกรธ แต่ความเจ็บปวด ดังนั้นพวกเขาระวังไม่ให้รบกวนเขา เนื่องจากส่วนใหญ่เข้าใจว่า ปล่อยเขาไม่ได้ที่พระเอกทำง่ายของเขาแต่ที่ cataclysm ที่ในโปรแกรมต่าง ๆ
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