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
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lovely enigmatic poem. Glowing angels warriors dying in the inferno supposedly for a good cause?
Thanks for commenting on my poem Rain Of Glowing Angels., ,