Catography #6. “When the ‘heroes’ fall”

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On the sunny hillocks of life, beyond the ears of corn quivering under the leaden earth, above the raging river, wedged between rows of cypress trees and restless clouds of chestnut trees, there is a narrow road that winds uphill, across pebbles and stones, marked by chariot wheels and the patched shoes of wayfarers.
On this little street impassable, the solitary of scorched grass jets from Imperishable winter frost bite here and there discreetly snaked snow melted flowing down towards the valley.
Lazily down, past the animal’s legs, over the smudged and frantic footsteps of the animals on the run course, now close to broken branches and rocks covered with moss, arriving at last, but not filthy by nature.
Farmyard, a shack thrown up with dry bricks and slate roof, now in ruins, and gnawed by time and snow. In front of the door, there was a man, a gentle giant.
He always had a smile and a kind word for everyone, him. But now, her blonde bangs fell heavily lined forehead, the blue-gray eyes screamed a silent room, while screaming, against his will, had to yell at his friends, even if he never wanted to, go, shouted.
He was found alone.
The man raises his head. For the last time.
She heard a buzz slid along the ridge.
He saw a man jump at breakneck speed down the other side.
She smiled, though the other could not see him.
He was afraid, so afraid,
and that they go on to say that there are heroes,
who are not afraid and crap like that.

“Yes of course, it takes more courage to face my disease, to face death, yes, I am really a hero, dammit. Now leave me alone, I’m busy”

He muttered to himself and to me, hiding, closing the door behind her bumpy.
His voice was like the leaves caressed by the serotine wind.

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