The winter of broad moons and small days is upon us. A long time ago I was a boy and it snowed and snowed. I remember it, staring at the black earth at rest, barely illuminated by the ice of a pond. It's incredible: but all of this earth sleeping beneath the cold today will be wheat tomorrow, in the wind.

And red poppies. And vine shoots.... Without hope: the land of Castille is waiting - the rivers are rising - with conviction.

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