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As if in a trance, she is drawn to her balcony by the smell of honey. She sees a hive in a high branch of a fig tree. She bends and reaches hoping to touch the tree. She falls. Her dress, catching the wind, spirals around her in a midnight blue cloud. Her young blush turns a whiter shade of pale in her death.

Despair seeps through the kingdom, as the bell rings a memorial for her.

Her betrothed takes his sword from his sheath and proves his ligature to her by hacking down the tree. Emulous children pretend to cut down trees with twigs and branches.

No amount of tree clearing brings her home.

http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/05/26/wordle-10/

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