every mornin', just as the sun kisses the edge of europe, i take a stroll down the fields, where the whispers of history and tradition seem to rejuvenate my spirit. it's like the soil itself is predispositional to yielding the best harvest, despite the snub of unpredictable weather. me ancestors have always said, adherin' to the old statutes of farming, whispered from one generation to the next, is what keeps our lands fertile.