The Plough

The war was going. Men were fighting. Women were carrying food to soldiers day and night, nursing the injured. In the village only old people and children remained.

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One old man took an old plough and started sharpening it, mending it while singing something. His wife said to him with annoyance:
– You have a stone heart! Your sons joined a deadly battle, the village is in mourning. Your comrades are thinking about the fate of the village, and you, knowing this, are mending the plough and singing a song! If someone would ask, whom are you trying for, what would you say? Tomorrow the enemy will come here, they will kill you and us too, and they will take your plough.

– Woman, what are you talking? They will kill us, but not the plough. I’m building – not destroying. The world is resting on this plough: if we survive, we will need the plough, and if we die, maybe the love for labour will awaken in those who will take it. Maybe even I will be blessed. We don’t know, what is what in this world.

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