A mournful march

Children held on tightly to their mothers’ fingers, spurning wet nurses, as they were pulled along through the throng of townsfolk. Wives took deep, mournful breaths as they marched. Sons spoke in hushed tones to fathers that could offer no answers. Harlots wore their best clothes and hung their heads. Street urchins huddled together. And the wise of the great library stared blankly at the cobbled streets ahead.

Work in progress (maybe).

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