Daughter of the fog

I could have been the daughter of the mist, the mist so sweet on a cold day, its sky white, and its streets empty, as empty as a heart pierced, above and below, or the daughter of dry branches, for example, I could have been pale, warmly pale, Like some hearth, or a felled tree, on the side of a deserted road, I could have been the child of the perfume of the night, or something hung on the wall as a souvenir, or a chain of silver on someone's neck, the child of a cloud far, lonely, as if in vain.

I could have been a friend of a dim light, I'm never lonely, I'm not so miserable, I don't hear music, I don't hear anything that dances the soul, but I light up.

If you are a bird, it does not die, but loses a piece of life when it does not sing.
What if you were a halo on the head of an angel?