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What do you think of this text, taken from a book?

"Time passes, turning the wheel of life just as water turns a mill’s wheel. Five years later, I was walking behind a black carriage, its wheels so high I could see the horses’ hooves. I was dressed in black, and little Paul’s hand was gripping mine with all its strength as we carried our mother away forever. From that terrible day, I have no other memory, as though my fifteen-year-old self refused to accept the weight of a grief that could have destroyed me. For years, well into adulthood, we never found the courage to speak of her.

Then, little Paul grew very tall. He towered over me, his head above mine, and wore a golden silk beard trimmed close. In the hills of l’Etoile, which he never wished to leave, he tended his herd of goats. In the evenings, he made cheese in woven rush sieves, then, on the gravel of the garrigue, he would sleep, wrapped in his large coat: he was the last shepherd of Virgil. But at thirty, in a clinic, he died. On the bedside table lay his harmonica.

My dear Lili didn’t accompany me to the small cemetery in La Treille to bury him because he had been waiting there for years, beneath a patch of everlasting flowers. In 1917, in a dark northern forest, a bullet to the forehead had cut short his young life. He fell under the rain, onto clumps of cold plants whose names he didn’t know...

Such is the life of men. A few joys, quickly erased by unforgettable sorrows. There’s no need to tell this to children."
What do you think of this text, taken from a book?
What do you think of this text, taken from a book?
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