“I breed pigs - the man says to me - I have just come back home to rest. I’ll start shooting again later”- “I didn’t hear anything - the woman candidly confesses, - I take so many sleeping pills! In spite of the bombing I have just woken up! ”. I look out of the window. There is what is left of a soldier in a farmyard: a foot, a sock… a cut-off leg… a sockless foot, the chest… and a few metres farther, under a tree, beside a worm-eaten apple, the split head full of flies. “I'll go grooming the pigs – the man says to me with a polite, kind smile, - then, after sleeping and eating, I’ll immediately start shooting again at those bastards living on the other side of the river”. “I'll go back sleeping - the woman says to me in a graceful way. - But, if you wish to stay… make yourself at home”. I shake my head. This is not my home.
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