What time took

in #photographylast year

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There, in the deep Soria that could be said to be the infinite solitudes of the Highlands, above mountains and ravines formerly frequented by the thousand and one bleats of the sheep herds of the great and powerful lords of wool, some ruins, Suffering from the eternal evil of loneliness, oblivion and the irremediable barbarism of men, year after year, century after century, they watch impassively as the occasional travelers pass by, encouraged above all by the magical night of San Juan, they head towards San Pedro Manrique, ready to live the magnetic and traditional experience of passing over the coals.

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The tower was toppled, the nave and the old chapels of the Epistle and the Gospel were toppled, the marvelous paintings that decorated her baptistry were irretrievably spoiled, and the Black Madonna who presided over all her ceremonies also disappeared, since, according to the Freires themselves' with her his religion began and ended ', the raven friend and the hare friend garden freely at their badly wounded corners, mastered in a territory that many years ago ceased to be hostile, surrendered to the painful penance of oblivion, especially now that at its feet is the municipal garbage dump. Paradoxes of life.

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Convent of those mystery knights who were the Templars, what remains of San Pedro - familiarly called El Viejo, as in Huesca its famous monastery - is currently just a media shell, which threatens to kiss that sacred-holy land again on which one day it rose with the elegance of the arithmetic of God, already promulgated by the Godfather of the Order, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux: balance, measure, harmony, proportion; in short: Geometry.

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It is hard to see, despite the endearing humility of its constitution, whose slabs and stones, masterfully fitted like the pieces of a magnificent natural puzzle, do not differ at all from those others that characterized, in times when Methuselah was still young, old mountain houses, waterproofed in winter and pleasantly cool in the hot summers, when even the cicada is terribly stifled and the cricket awaits the arrival of night to raise its antennas to the sky and seductively sing to the stars.

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As in Cressac and also in some other points of the Iberian Peninsula, in the ruined pictorial strokes of the presbytery, lamb of God and of Culture immolated on the altars of barbarism by merchants of ignorance, yes, they do hard times, the fight between knights, always present, also, in the initiation cycles of the Grail cavalry, where the Templars –the Templeisen, by Wolfgang von Eschenbach- were their custodians.

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And among them, visible as the numerous graffiti that attack the old plasters as the tortured body of those elms of the Douro riverbank with initials that are names and figures that are dates, as the poet sang, a curious and extraordinary symbol of the most remote past: the Neolithic archer-sagittarius, arguably the true forerunner of the modern rainbow warrior, the archer who points his bow at the stars. Your Majesty ... the Indalo.

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NOTICE: Both the text and the accompanying photographs are my exclusive intellectual property.

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5 de abril de 2019