Death sits on my nose, the old farmer says. Why ask me about the past? Why ask me about the war?
He was a soldier in the war.
And he killed so many.
Some in battle.
Some after, as they rounded up the surrendered.
Shot them and dropped their bodies in the pit.
Some in their houses. Or their churches.
Taking gold from their pockets.
Selling candlesticks and fabric and books.
And now, he is a farmer.
So many farmers, death sits on their nose.
I board the train, and leave them all to death to take as it will.