“The farmers won. We lost. We always lose,” you say before we ride out of the village.
I lost four comrades, a few illusions, a few daydreams.
You lost two friends and two other men you came to respect. And maybe a daydream. You had no illusions to lose.
What I can give you now is not much. Ride beside you, respect your silence. Let you grieve any way you want to. Make sure you don’t go off alone with your gun.
If I’d like to give you more, this is not the time to say it.
I can wait.