In the dim glow of twilight blues, an ancient wanderer slumps against the shadows, his gnarled fingers cradling a pair of emerald orbs like forgotten treasures from a mischievous garden. This is the Old Nutdenza, where the weary soul strums silent tunes on his swollen green companions, lamenting the heavy burden of life's most tender harvests. With eyes cast down in quiet resignation, he ponders the absurd symphony of existence, where every low note echoes with the crunch of fate's unyielding grip.
Rodeyo
