A musician sits on weathered stone steps strumming a guitar in a quaint village. The sun sets, casting a warm glow on the ancient buildings and surrounding greenery.
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A didgeridoo’s ancient growl pulses through Brussels' stone heart, spun by a lone street bard in turquoise and felt. His mallets tap out sunlight over rumble, echoing off guildhalls that once hummed with commerce. Crowds cluster, wide-eyed—drawn not by lyrics, but by resonance. In this still point of rhythm and stone, centuries collapse. The earth sings in two tongues, and time listens.