Some days they did not speak; at other times they chatted; but they understood each other perfectly without the aid of words, having similar tastes and feelings.
That must be a good memory.
Good times. The river was tinted with the delicate color of a soothing setting sun. Until a blood-red glow took over the whole land. For war had begun.
And the two began placidly discussing political problems with the sound common sense of peaceful, matter-of-fact citizens--agreeing on one point: that they would never be free.
An imminent ending. A brief moment to decide. Your country. Your life.
And during the brevity of that moment, the natural reaction of holding on to nice memories, I believe. Blissful minutes that make up a life. The sun. The river. The silence. Or maybe just the sound of the cannons.
And heroes cry.
The desperate sense of resignation while saying goodbye.