Summer of the Red Wolf Page 29
by Morris West
We live now, happily, in an old, old country where daisies grow out of the mouths of men long dead, and roses out of the loins of saintly virgins who never bore a child – and these are gentler epitaphs than the ones you read on gravestones. There will be no roses for Ruarri the Mactire, because he went away in the fire, and what was left of him after the dusty usage of the law was buried in the Morrison plot under a granite stone.
But there is an epitaph – this book – and there is love in the remembering and in the writing. These are the last words of it:
I miss you, Brother Wolf…God! How I miss you!