What the little angel thinks

You're home. The bell tinkles
and happiness is a table, laid.
You're home. The smoking stove.
It's ages since the back-draft stopped.

And happiness lies in halves
on the old [coffer?] with booklets
Then you read Anderrsson -- My Lord, is it yet behind us?

Your playsuits in that black-cupboard
which is so hard to prise open
- My Lord, are we your image?
God gives no reply another breathes

and gravely hides the key
which brought you sleep
- Only what to the little angels think?
They no longer think, no longer watch over us.