Rain of Glowing Angels

if it wasn't for the fact I would be dead in less than a minute, I would always be in awe at the sight of a thousand fire-tipped arrows arching and downing like fireflies in sparkled warmth lit like stars against the night sky I never tired of such a sight I… then I died again as ever, life up to that point held harshness in my trappings, my prison of wild openness, the hills, the grasslands of my people, thatching roofs and weaving wools, making bread and raking soils a day singing to the backdrop of hammering from the smiths, these scenes so familiar these days, always days then the baron's called as they usually did about now and men took arms, heading into the tunnel and with many of my folk I would die under an intoxicating rain of glowing angels