A nice day of April, the wind has blown strong over the plains and the hills. The wisps of straw have scattered around, taken away, rolling on the hillsides to get lost. Decomposed, without hygiene. Grass and trees have resisted the wind, thanks to their roots, as they are anchored inside earth itself. They have not forgotten earth. They are the only ones standing still.
Within the city, more than ever, you live, or you try. You wander between the buildings. You discuss. You do with whatever you get. You get little, just the most necessary things.
But what stands beyond the wall?
In such times of challenge, is it wise to listen to the tales?
