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The Into that year of 1348 I rode behind a hooded ghost on the fourth horse through cultivated fields abandoned into his city of deserted homes and looted stores where residents dropped like poisoned flies and were carted limp to long ditches freshly dug. A young woman naked covered with blots of purple and black walked to the street calling for anyone to carry her dead brother. A monk flung his habit into a smoldering fire raising his fist in protest: “Why hast Thou forsaken us?... Why?” His lifted arm exposed a swelling the size of an egg, a Bubonic tattoo. Neal P. Willy |
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