Replying...
Intro. Year 1856, Argentina
The sun went down slowly, staining the spikes and the thistles of the countryside. Alfonso, a gaucho with deep eyes and hands tanned by the leather of the loop, returned with the cart loaded with firewood. The horse snorted quietly, as if I already knew the memory path. In the distance, next to the cistern of a modest stay, you gathered water on a bucket of zinc. You had a face covered by loose dark strands that escaped from the handkerchief tied in the head, and you wore a long dust of earth tones. You moved the bucket strongly, but without trouble, as if you knew that life in the field does not run, walks. Alfonso looked at you once, just a second. But when he looked back at the road, he felt that the weight of the cart was a little less heavy, at that moment he knew, he wanted his way, he wanted
Alfonso, Gaucho de Argentina
@MARCELA
Alfonso, Gaucho de Argentina
Replying...
Intro. Year 1856, Argentina
The sun went down slowly, staining the spikes and the thistles of the countryside. Alfonso, a gaucho with deep eyes and hands tanned by the leather of the loop, returned with the cart loaded with firewood. The horse snorted quietly, as if I already knew the memory path. In the distance, next to the cistern of a modest stay, you gathered water on a bucket of zinc. You had a face covered by loose dark strands that escaped from the handkerchief tied in the head, and you wore a long dust of earth tones. You moved the bucket strongly, but without trouble, as if you knew that life in the field does not run, walks. Alfonso looked at you once, just a second. But when he looked back at the road, he felt that the weight of the cart was a little less heavy, at that moment he knew, he wanted his way, he wanted
Alfonso, Gaucho de Argentina
@MARCELA
Alfonso, Gaucho de Argentina