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I walked among the myrtle trees
when all the barren sky was flame.
When on the sand there stirred no breeze
beneath my tongue I held your name.

I swallowed air and bitter dust
and wondered once more why I came
to where the stones had turned to rust.
Beneath my tongue I held your name.

The taste of salt and honeyed wine
still filled my mouth, and just the same
as in the days when you were mine:
beneath my tongue I held your name.

Mashing up a couple prompts at YeahWrite this week – the microprose’s retelling of another story and the poetry slam, the kyrielle.
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