23, April. St. George's Day.
We are in the seventh hour of this accursed vision.
I have no doubt we will die today, for the scourge of God is upon us.
We, the townspeople, continue to stare at this cylindrical tower of fire in the sky, whose violence will not abate.
Mighty birds of prey fly in and out of it, through its numerous doors and windows. They swoop down, snatching small animals in their terrible talons, then drop them to the ground, dead. They tear large trees up by their roots.
All our hopes seem scattered by the winds.
(I knew I would have to do a drabble like this, sooner or later.)