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Early morning risers cavalcaded into the town square, brushing with straw
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
the blocks?
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)



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The following comments are for "My favorite death"
by Wetice

I thing there's something up with the returns on this piece which combined with the dashes made it hard to read. But I plowed thru and I liked it. -Philo

( Posted by: Philo [Member] On: November 5, 2004 )

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