The church had been carved into the rock, by dint of a pick and shovel, almost entirely bare hands. The sight to anyone who had been introduced for the first time, would have taken my breath away. The only source of light came from torches hanging on the ceiling of the cave, and swing hanging from the top, gave the idea of \u200b\u200bstrange atavistic religious objects of worship.
I went back powerful memories of the war in my mind, so fiercely that I could not put a logical thought in action. We had been on that lawn, that spring from the infamous bloody deception. All. No one had returned. Yet some of us continues to live. Like me. We were veterans. Veterans. The re-conducted at home. But that letter came in one morning in winter, while snow was cradling the infant ears, and then long trains of soldiers on the border, guys like me, finished in the spring in a distant world, avvlto smoke, where he died.
thousand seven hundred and twenty bodies wrapped in white shrouds had to watch, 1720 stars in a cloudy sky. We were two thousand. We went back.
Now I have the blood on my skin, and which do not have to worry about whether my own or that of a partner, or another who, like me, thought of having to kill, otherwise I would have done. I no longer wash in the evening, when murderous eyes hanging from the peaks, from each tree, from the pits of concrete. Now spring returns home. The field in front of the porch is full of white daisies. White flowers, one thousand seven hundred white flowers, butterflies, cocoons destroyed, this evening shadows linger as anxious about me.
The church was hoping to find a different sky. But the battle could not bury her. I tried, returning to fish, to propose a trade: my memory, in exchange for a pike. But someone there he fell and held the pike.
I stayed in that field. The time has buried me, the time it takes an innocent to die. Can not change history now.
The storm affects our warriors, while are still far away. The sky turns purple, hot air is a sphere, and the forest turns to gold. After the forest, the city fades into a yellow and black blanket. In the field does not stop the war. The hammer blow here has run down to the height of its power, where the invader has spewed a million soldiers.
Soon we realize that it was not a time to surprise our troops. Nothing is left behind. Needless to return home, every thing that has always been, now crashed.
And there is nothing more than we knew before. Today
remain in this church, as if I tried to talk to someone. In fact I stay in here alone, because I'm trying to understand. I have to understand what it means god.
And I sensed something: it is not in this church. Then
is an ideal retreat.
Every stone, every breath of fire, every yearning of the earth that calls for rain, it is only one aspect of God, is only a vague sense of reality.
I understand why I was told today that they are no longer alone. The priest is human, says we are all brothers. I understand why he says it.
The fire and wind, water and air are free things, not part of any thought.
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