The walnuts orchard

In the middle of summer, I was on top of a hill near the house. It was one of those days in which the sun heats hot the land and the air of a sunset more than magnificent. I was watching the clouds that looked like hung in the branches of several trees that guarded the loneliness of the  hill and, without to want, my thought flew to ‘The legend of the three trees’.
I watched the tree from the left and I was wondering myself, rhetorically of course, if it reaches that first tree of the legend. Then the second one and then the third and so on.  I was counting then the moments until the sun will hides its face leaving the moon following him.
Much later I learned my trees’ legend, legend told in whispers by a war veteran. A legend with taste and memories of blood and hope. A legend of several war refugees who believed in their faith and have harbored their fears under the young branches of the trees.
Now, the trees, my trees  will not be any animal shelter, or a boat of a fisherman of Galilee or any other object of death. All this because, now, they are some old walnuts trees that are declared sacred and, despite of their small number, they form an orchard that, not any blade or  thought can touch.
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Memories from blog:   Water, a reflection of  itself 
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