In the middle of the war, a red poppy trembled in the rubble. It made him put his gun down and stop. He had entered the eye of battle and knelt before the poppy, bullets whizzing, thinking, if we could just lie down with the poppies. And in the middle of the hunt, the old hunter saw the fox before anyone else, staring at him in a long patch of light. But he couldn’t shoot it because he suddenly wanted... Read more