We are made of flames during another slumber-less night beneath sleepy night skies, we appear like furnace torches inside a sapphire to those we visit, thus are our bodies, eternal and bright white or blue-flames, the color of Heaven. Most do not deserve their beauty, the great clouds looming and watchful fiery eyes of the imp hidden in the coal-like shadows, a gold throne silent and forever splendid. Movement and we surge like lightning hissing and scorching a tree below, a bow that looks like glowing hot metal, voices that sound like rushing water as we go. Crystalline wings lifted and raised like a Holy Cross afire, the living-thunder and our small, round faces that harbor a remote melancholy, a feeling that you shall never shake.