Sometimes, in our women's eyes, history is like an orange. Peel away the outer skin of politics and religion, eat the flesh of war and ideas, and what remains are seeds formed from love and hate. Buried in the soil, they eventually sprout and blossom, growing into a tree filled with countless stories.
The writing is very artistic (←This is a complimentary word)
Although I didn't understand it very well, I felt the splendor of that era in Europe.
Only death is the only melody that history emits, and only death is remembered.