As they say, when a man begins to have bad luck, even clabber can break his head.

And at dawn, the drums still beat on the sleepless plain like an unstoppable heart.

At noon, you walk across a river. It is dry, with not this much water: it is just stones and pebbles. But it rains cats and dogs in the mountains, and towards afternoon, the water descends wildly and she ravages all in its path, the madwoman. That is how death comes. Without our expecting it, and we cannot do a thing against it, brothers.

Peasants are a rude lot, and hard: life has hardened their hearts, but they are thick and awkward only in appearance you have to know them. No one is more sensitive to what gives man the right to call himself a man: good-heartedness, bravery and virile brotherhood.

Experience is the cane of the blind.