The heat broth at the end of August has given a beautiful sobriety to the walnut tree that we have in the atrium of the workplace. The blackened leaves with the twist of the twist of the ferment are beautiful dancers of the south wind on the grass. And the image brings poetry to mind, P.D. A poetic fragment of the beautiful novel Death in Holy Orders by James; in my approximate relief it says: “In the middle of the ranch, an old Indian chestnut showed the beginning of the fall catastrophe. Pieces of crust-shaped skin were lost at the foot of the tortuous trunk, the old ones that had been formed with leaves as tender and green as the newest tips of spring were not altsumas. Above, the horns, dressed in yellow and brown, and the fugitive leaves, like mummified fingers, looked flabby and fragile among the bright mahogany chestnuts.” The fugitive leaves of tankert, but

in the wood the chestnut indi (Aesculus hippocastanum) and the walnut (Juglans regia) have a significant difference. He has soft, tender, poplar wood, while this one is hard, durable, compact.

Walnut wood is paid black, and if it’s black, more black. Is it worse than black? How fucked up! Red is darker than black, the red wood of the yew.

The yew tree, Taxus baccata, has been venerated for thousands of years before the nut, and together with the ash and art has been the magic tree of our portals. It lives for thousands of years and represents a rich and promising history of the blood of the house next door. The Romans brought the nut to us, they taught us that money buys everything. And for the demand of black or red, paid and disappeared are our best yews, as well as the rare pre-portals. Sold our history and future. XVI to XVIII. If iron had been sold to England for centuries, it had to be accompanied by trunks of yew, so that the army could make the arches it needed. Money killed the most expensive. And we lost the authority. Should we write the imperative? I'd bet the pair of oxen that the authority comes from the sacred yew!