Early morning risers cavalcaded into the town square, brushing with straw
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brooms paving the way-in the square was built a hand-made stone knee high
wall-round and perfect.
The dew dried evenly leaving little remnance of rain, in tense shaking drops
hang-in the last web of pain. Glistening into the weeping shadows that clung
so dearly, like a winter harvest desperate to stay-another season-another
unpaying service, or a master tending to the lame stocks-swollen ankles in
Thirst quenching me relentlessly-swarming flys, biting my open wounds-my blood-
their filthy prize. A splash of a maidens warmed cup of ginger water and clove
oil awakens my last dream-into a horrible nightmare-to rue the day.
Last moment of reprisal was a silly songbird and a crow-warts in a minds crave
nothing but a quick demise, but my ears, the only sense intact-held no fear
to what the rest of me lacked-the crow cawed three times with a nod, and the
song of his partner came out with a log-a match to wick, and dust from flame-
He goes to Him, and dies in shame.
Then I burned.
Et al de nuet Noel(My last song of rites)