For the angels who inhabit this town, although their shape constantly changes, each night we leave some cold potatoes and a bowl of milk on the windowsill.
Usually they inhabit heaven where, by the way, no tears are allowed.
They push the moon around like a boiled yam.
The Milky Way is their hen with her many children.
When it is night the cows lie down but the moon, that big bull, stands up.