The Wistful Silence
The great oak at the center of the quadrangle had been stripped of its bark by the winter winds, its white wood gleaming with a terrible, bleached purity that seemed to absorb the thin, grey light of the afternoon rather than reflect it, standing like a bleached bone protruding from the earth of the monastery grounds where we, the scribes and scholars of this crumbling institution, spent our...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior