No honor, no remembrance on this ridge of the hill. Our pale deeds will rest on these shy and reserved leaves.Only for those who want to really read with sincere amazement.Down in the valley, immersed in the mist, on the ancient gnarled willow, ancient tribute to the pain, bullets stuck in the scarred trunk lost their nature and as chrysalises awakened to new life.The tree from time immemorial was a silent witness of all the cats that appeared, day and night, at the window of the man who pursued with them dreams and impossible stories.