tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20513357137112020082024-03-05T08:15:20.082+01:00La mirillaFotografiar es poner en la misma línea de mira, la cabeza, el ojo y el corazón.
(Henri Cartier-Bresson)Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-10594826174731342952015-10-04T10:30:00.000+02:002015-10-04T10:30:16.456+02:00Luz caleidoscópica<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ul4hKGPN4Mo/VhDglYm936I/AAAAAAAAGY4/Buv8cvn8Zuk/s1600/IMG_9573.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ul4hKGPN4Mo/VhDglYm936I/AAAAAAAAGY4/Buv8cvn8Zuk/s640/IMG_9573.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">Luz y sombras </span></span></span></b></u></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
Dicen que el mundo es negro,</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
una eterna sombra caída.</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
Pero por muy oscuro que sea el día</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
el sol siempre vuelve… siempre brilla. </span></span></span><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
Solo has de saber ver las sombras</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
como una ruptura con la monotonía.</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
Porque si solo hubiese luces</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
en realidad nada brillaría. </span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
Si solo hubiese alegrías:</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
¿Quién las apreciaría?</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
Si solo hubiese tristeza: </span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
¿Qué sentido tendría la vida? </span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
Es la melancolía quien compone</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
los más bellos poemas.</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
Y es la alegría la que torna</span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"></span></span></span><br /><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">
almas vacías en vidas llenas. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more"> </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="feed_item_posted"><span class="feed_item_bodytext"><span class="view_more">Melina Vázquez </span></span></span></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-48495066033999324772015-02-23T20:23:00.000+01:002015-02-23T20:25:05.272+01:00Esperando al comensal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YTcCcoHNxD8/VOt98oghK3I/AAAAAAAAGMI/oMMyBVA4-AY/s1600/IMG_2967.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YTcCcoHNxD8/VOt98oghK3I/AAAAAAAAGMI/oMMyBVA4-AY/s1600/IMG_2967.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Oda al gran mantel <br />
<br />
<br />
Cuando llamaron a comer<br />
se abalanzaron los tiranos<br />
y sus cocotas pasajeras,<br />
y era hermoso verlas pasar<br />
como avispas de busto grueso<br />
seguidas por aquellos pálidos<br />
y desdichados tigres públicos.<br />
<br />
Su oscura ración de pan<br />
comió el campesino en el campo,<br />
estaba solo y era tarde,<br />
estaba rodeado de trigo,<br />
pero no tenía más pan,<br />
se lo comió con dientes duros,<br />
mirándolo con ojos duros.<br />
<br />
En la hora azul del almuerzo,<br />
la hora infinita del asado,<br />
el poeta deja su lira,<br />
toma el cuchillo, el tenedor<br />
y pone su vaso en la mesa,<br />
y los pescadores acuden<br />
al breve mar de la sopera.<br />
Las papas ardiendo protestan<br />
entre las lenguas del aceite.<br />
Es de oro el cordero en las brasas<br />
y se desviste la cebolla.<br />
Es triste comer de frac,<br />
es comer en un ataúd,<br />
pero comer en los conventos<br />
es comer ya bajo la tierra.<br />
Comer solos es muy amargo<br />
pero no comer es profundo,<br />
es hueco, es verde, tiene espinas<br />
como una cadena de anzuelos<br />
que cae desde el corazón<br />
y que te clava por adentro.<br />
<br />
Tener hambre es como tenazas,<br />
es como muerden los cangrejos,<br />
quema, quema y no tiene fuego:<br />
el hambre es un incendio frío.<br />
Sentémonos pronto a comer<br />
con todos los que no han comido,<br />
pongamos los largos maneles,<br />
la sal en los lagos del mundo,<br />
panaderías planetarias,<br />
mesas con fresas en la nieve,<br />
y un plato como la luna<br />
en donde todos almorcemos.<br />
<br />
Por ahora no pido más<br />
que la justicia del almuerzo.<br />
<div style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
Pablo Neruda</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-75675113734157874182014-07-09T21:21:00.000+02:002014-07-09T21:22:41.135+02:00¡Ah, del castillo!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ijCuDyv8cb4/U72VNy2M9dI/AAAAAAAAEvE/iFQUZssbmJk/s1600/Puente+la+Reina+(7).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ijCuDyv8cb4/U72VNy2M9dI/AAAAAAAAEvE/iFQUZssbmJk/s1600/Puente+la+Reina+(7).JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Tras la aldaba</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Cierro el ojo y tu mano no se acaba,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">yo me callo y mi voz sigue en tu oído,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">ni en la distancia es cierto que haya olvido</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">ni del tiempo es la historia alguna esclava.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Antes creí que el orden se olvidaba,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">todo acababa o era suspendido</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">hoy lo que sé es que todo lo vivido</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">se queda aquí, sin muros y sin traba.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Por eso al descorrer la tierna aldaba</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">de un beso, de un amor, de un tiempo ya ido</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">descubro que aún estás donde te hallaba.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Por eso, corazón, ven, si te pido,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">y tráeme la fuerza que encontraba</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;">en tu voz, tu bregar, en tu latido.</span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.poemas-del-alma.com/blog/mostrar-poema-179526"> Óscar Pérez</a><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-4914932157309947452011-04-02T09:05:00.004+02:002011-04-02T09:17:17.342+02:00Rayos de sol que pican<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G0S3lPFsxUQ/TZbLTPS0ARI/AAAAAAAACHU/-vzg9PRcYFk/s1600/IMG_0184.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 336px; height: 225px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G0S3lPFsxUQ/TZbLTPS0ARI/AAAAAAAACHU/-vzg9PRcYFk/s200/IMG_0184.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590879518810439954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">A la caída de la tarde, los destellos del sol quieren ocultarse bajo las aguas. Es ese el momento que precisan los pescadores para atraparlos con la sutileza de un sedal que se introduce entre las ondas y que se arma con el final interrogativo del anzuelo.<br /></span><br /><div class="cuerpoPoema"><p style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Vi sobre la playa de oro<br />un delfín blanco resoplar<br />mientras lloraba como un niño</p><p style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">A pocos metros los pescadores<br />entre redes calculaban su peso<br />para llevarlo al mercado de <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD4">carnes</span></p><p style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Pensé que el amor era el mar<br />y nosotros el delfín<br />que no sabía o no podía regresar.</p><p> Fernando Rendón<br /></p></div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-47580328291035120952010-06-13T13:07:00.004+02:002010-06-13T13:34:23.767+02:00Pase, es usted un sol<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/TBS-JariclI/AAAAAAAAB6M/0j3roGXsAGk/s1600/IMG_9941.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/TBS-JariclI/AAAAAAAAB6M/0j3roGXsAGk/s320/IMG_9941.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482215715406770770" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC6600;">Desnuda<br />al cerrar la puerta<br />recibías como recompensa<br />un vano rosario de palabras.<br />Dile que vuelva.<br />Dile que venga y presente al respetable<br />sus magnificas nalgas rosadas<br />la ronca voz<br />y la canción de entonces.</span></i></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(60, 60, 60); line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(60, 60, 60); line-height: 17px; font-family:Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><h1 style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; text-align: center; position: relative; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; color:initial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCC33;">Harold Alvarado Tenorio</span></span></span></span></h1></span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-23054951013071642882010-05-20T20:44:00.004+02:002010-05-20T20:52:39.866+02:00Río Tinto<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4aooZ33EvdtamBMjaJQRZ9HaYnMPIcvdWrZVt7myBkxD_RIHg4QrWBSy0ABxzoBp9pdnyfpbfO34s9fkfHTf8inblAhouxdrnlfttsqitakZXeKCdNqYO5RAbNvQAGSdjPOJ37xgslyr/s320/IMG_9969.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4aooZ33EvdtamBMjaJQRZ9HaYnMPIcvdWrZVt7myBkxD_RIHg4QrWBSy0ABxzoBp9pdnyfpbfO34s9fkfHTf8inblAhouxdrnlfttsqitakZXeKCdNqYO5RAbNvQAGSdjPOJ37xgslyr/s320/IMG_9969.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">La rocas de las riberas del marciano río Tinto crean a veces formas caprichosas. No hay que ser muy ingenioso para imaginar la cabeza de un rinoceronte.</div><br /><br />Incluso podemos encontrar en el agua hasta lo que podría parecer un huevo de dinosaurio.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXD-mH1gSgoNzA0s_NIMCtHApjeN7n5S9JoD5XW8r-RhPu322XTOcWhO84305TmpK8ehrnb9D5BzEnRn-5wRh6VXdzdI6D97_m7b8Z6hDSC4uuGZuGwoOl3VBhGWRrqB0CVrQu7a1r0o0/s320/IMG_9976.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXD-mH1gSgoNzA0s_NIMCtHApjeN7n5S9JoD5XW8r-RhPu322XTOcWhO84305TmpK8ehrnb9D5BzEnRn-5wRh6VXdzdI6D97_m7b8Z6hDSC4uuGZuGwoOl3VBhGWRrqB0CVrQu7a1r0o0/s320/IMG_9976.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-63006150387975071972010-05-02T10:30:00.001+02:002010-05-02T10:46:37.413+02:00Faroles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S907scaiBiI/AAAAAAAAB1s/FaV5r-Vae1k/s1600/IMG_9798.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S907scaiBiI/AAAAAAAAB1s/FaV5r-Vae1k/s320/IMG_9798.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466591157425407522" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Faroles de la calle Empedrá<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-49813504991772104032010-04-02T12:20:00.004+02:002010-04-02T12:28:53.327+02:00Luz aprisionada<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S7XGpGzlecI/AAAAAAAAB0k/0-4mdvn7eyg/s1600/IMG_9797.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S7XGpGzlecI/AAAAAAAAB0k/0-4mdvn7eyg/s320/IMG_9797.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455484933133138370" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">El hierro forjado es capaz de hacer presa a la luz de la tarde.<br />Los rayos de un sol que se apaga tropiezan, ya sin fuerzas, contra los barrotes.<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-40738327327665473462010-03-23T14:30:00.002+01:002010-03-23T23:36:11.677+01:00Escalas a la gloria<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S6Z1x1nunRI/AAAAAAAAB0c/7ol4IzHZi94/s1600-h/IMG_9685.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S6Z1x1nunRI/AAAAAAAAB0c/7ol4IzHZi94/s320/IMG_9685.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451173898046315794" /></a><br /><div>Los querubines tienen las piernas cortas y los pies chiquitines. La escala celeste debe tener peldaños a su medida. La iglesia de Trigueros les proporciona justo lo que necesitan para sus traviesos juegos en las alturas.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-7131439114752255102010-03-20T18:53:00.005+01:002010-03-20T22:08:10.924+01:00Llega la primavera en Trigueros<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S6UOGwUV3DI/AAAAAAAAB0M/_crulb9ZQw0/s1600-h/IMG_9790.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S6UOGwUV3DI/AAAAAAAAB0M/_crulb9ZQw0/s320/IMG_9790.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450778433214078002" /></a><br />Los almendros que hay en el camino de las vías ya muestran la esperanza de un fruto cierto, como decía fray Luis de León.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S6UQiMMy2LI/AAAAAAAAB0U/iYXsF3itLdI/s1600-h/IMG_9770.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S6UQiMMy2LI/AAAAAAAAB0U/iYXsF3itLdI/s320/IMG_9770.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450781103578339506" /></a><br />Las buenas temperaturas hacen que los jaramagos alegren la vista de los que se acercan al Pilar de la Media Legua; y además llenan los estómagos de los pájaros.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-6009574206387182202010-03-20T15:47:00.003+01:002010-03-20T18:19:05.451+01:00La tarde languidece<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S6UDfgyI2DI/AAAAAAAAB0E/lJ6ZbF9vPyI/s1600-h/img231.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S6UDfgyI2DI/AAAAAAAAB0E/lJ6ZbF9vPyI/s320/img231.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450766763912910898" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#551A8B;"><u><br /></u></span></div>La tarde languidece en la fortaleza de Setúbal y muestra unas tonalidades malvas que invitan a la meditación.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-19185848620621695322010-02-20T15:18:00.011+01:002010-04-02T20:14:46.135+02:00Ilusiones en Trigueros<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupKiaD2J_OLCyxrk0U6_rbdpWUiDHiyitphxFFhpJ_oBKdQvkquyWGAX8jovNtkGWeAOYM3HyYQsTtcJM2o8cUm80p1ix0sMcgx81Pffi-_dqlFylEXyk1zsiBCO5sQZ3foWEMzvORBA/s1600-h/IMG_9762.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupKiaD2J_OLCyxrk0U6_rbdpWUiDHiyitphxFFhpJ_oBKdQvkquyWGAX8jovNtkGWeAOYM3HyYQsTtcJM2o8cUm80p1ix0sMcgx81Pffi-_dqlFylEXyk1zsiBCO5sQZ3foWEMzvORBA/s320/IMG_9762.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444820571428325426" border="0" /></a>La casa de Antonio Conde se ve amenazada por las puntas afiladas<br />de los pináculos de la ermita del santo.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S4_UjaCAQ9I/AAAAAAAABy4/fQC1yf-rRYE/s1600-h/IMG_9644.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S4_UjaCAQ9I/AAAAAAAABy4/fQC1yf-rRYE/s320/IMG_9644.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444804179262456786" border="0" /></a>La luz artificial de la bujía se ve silenciada<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">por los miles de rayos del sol espléndido de un die apacible de febrero.<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S3_vtNIuNGI/AAAAAAAABx4/TbZDEmEnCHk/s720/IMG_9680.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 333px; height: 222px;" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S3_vtNIuNGI/AAAAAAAABx4/TbZDEmEnCHk/s720/IMG_9680.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a>Recogimiento se escribe con h<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S4_Yw0y50oI/AAAAAAAABzA/-g-Awxc3RPY/s1600-h/IMG_9651.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/S4_Yw0y50oI/AAAAAAAABzA/-g-Awxc3RPY/s320/IMG_9651.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444808807831687810" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Fieles soldados vigilantes de la fe del pueblo en Trigueros.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-52284217365628728602010-02-07T20:56:00.003+01:002010-02-20T15:03:59.258+01:00Me basta asíPermitidme que cambie el tercio. Hoy os quiero recitar un poema que, me parece, es el sentimiento amoroso en su esencia más pura. Ángel González nos regala estas palabras para que les pongamos nosotros las imágenes:<br /><br /><object width="240" height="133" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://www.ivoox.com/playerivoox_ee_215046_1.html"><param name="movie" value="http://www.ivoox.com/playerivoox_ee_215046_1.html"></param><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.ivoox.com/playerivoox_ee_215046_1.html" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" allowscriptaccess="always" width="240" height="133"></embed></object><br /><br />ME BASTA ASÍ<br /><br />Si yo fuese Dios<br />y tuviese el secreto,<br />haría un ser exacto a ti;<br />lo probaría<br />(a la manera de los panaderos<br />cuando prueban el pan, es decir:<br />con la boca),<br />y si ese sabor fuese<br />igual al tuyo, o sea<br />tu mismo olor, y tu manera<br />de sonreír,<br />y de guardar silencio,<br />y de estrechar mi mano estrictamente,<br />y de besarnos sin hacernos daño<br />—de esto sí estoy seguro: pongo<br />tanta atención cuando te beso—;<br /> entonces,<br /><br />si yo fuese Dios,<br />podría repetirte y repetirte,<br />siempre la misma y siempre diferente,<br />sin cansarme jamás del juego idéntico,<br />sin desdeñar tampoco la que fuiste<br />por la que ibas a ser dentro de nada;<br />ya no sé si me explico, pero quiero<br />aclarar que si yo fuese<br />Dios, haría<br />lo posible por ser Ángel González<br />para quererte tal como te quiero,<br />para aguardar con calma<br />a que te crees tú misma cada día<br />a que sorprendas todas las mañanas<br />la luz recién nacida con tu propia<br />luz, y corras<br />la cortina impalpable que separa<br />el sueño de la vida,<br />resucitándome con tu palabra,<br />Lázaro alegre,<br />yo,<br />mojado todavía<br />de sombras y pereza,<br />sorprendido y absorto<br />en la contemplación de todo aquello<br />que, en unión de mí mismo,<br />recuperas y salvas, mueves, dejas<br />abandonado cuando —luego— callas...<br />(Escucho tu silencio.<br /> Oigo<br />constelaciones: existes.<br /> Creo en ti.<br /> Eres.<br /> Me basta).Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-765374354925461692009-12-24T19:47:00.006+01:002009-12-24T19:51:58.814+01:00Guerreros para el embarque<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82HK_nhrQsaHL4X61By_JKB1pGeYbXRUhpwdD24CYrr7ouBZ-0EUcsrJXZ8LiJhVHtXnZJOvXpLfjC1mhvyh7zVf7TBrYcignYhWXcU47VjpYnFNb7fswLpEJDbHgOHYUEQkrlNTxzRs/s1600-h/PC130342.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82HK_nhrQsaHL4X61By_JKB1pGeYbXRUhpwdD24CYrr7ouBZ-0EUcsrJXZ8LiJhVHtXnZJOvXpLfjC1mhvyh7zVf7TBrYcignYhWXcU47VjpYnFNb7fswLpEJDbHgOHYUEQkrlNTxzRs/s320/PC130342.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418876870297005106" /></a><br />Los guerreros de Xavier Mascaró parecen dispuestos a todo; incluso a embarcar en esta especie de pecio rescatado del mar.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-8037406887030539542009-12-12T09:45:00.003+01:002009-12-12T09:49:03.641+01:00Caminos de la tarde<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SyNYe8LbkhI/AAAAAAAABpg/68vgNEovmxI/s1600-h/IMG_9556.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SyNYe8LbkhI/AAAAAAAABpg/68vgNEovmxI/s320/IMG_9556.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414268465602859538" /></a><br /><i>"Yo voy soñando caminos / de la tarde..."</i>, decía Antonio Machado.<div><i>¿Adónde el camino irá?</i></div><div><i>Yo voy cantando, viajero,</i></div><div><i>a lo largo del sendero...</i></div><div><i>-La tarde cayendo está-</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-71531533407941714492009-11-25T00:14:00.003+01:002009-11-25T00:18:23.312+01:00Caducidad<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SwxpYpNhZOI/AAAAAAAABoU/Y0lzfBbNa0U/s1600/IMG_9563.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SwxpYpNhZOI/AAAAAAAABoU/Y0lzfBbNa0U/s320/IMG_9563.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407813124665468130" /></a>La naturaleza muestra su tristeza por el año que se va derramando lágrimas de hojas mortecinasUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-57084327191382043442009-11-13T21:48:00.004+01:002009-11-14T09:18:31.839+01:00¿A quién le toca ahora?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/Sv5ntgT2qKI/AAAAAAAABoA/5gbrKYgcALE/s1600-h/IMG_9015.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/Sv5ntgT2qKI/AAAAAAAABoA/5gbrKYgcALE/s320/IMG_9015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403870634356156578" border="0" /></a><br />...y el barbero se quedó con la navaja en una mano y el afilador de piel en la otra, pero no llegó nadie... Quedó la escena paralizada... en otra época.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-62960426928636025592009-11-06T17:11:00.008+01:002009-11-07T09:01:30.099+01:00Báculos<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SvUpSlIhAqI/AAAAAAAABmk/iCJh2n5ggzw/s1600-h/IMG_9058.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SvUpSlIhAqI/AAAAAAAABmk/iCJh2n5ggzw/s320/IMG_9058.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401268727282991778" border="0" /></a><br />La materia natural se curva para que manos expertas sostengan sus figuras, encorvadas ya por años de sabiduría y de vivencias.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-42424976653477077552009-11-04T17:00:00.001+01:002009-11-04T17:04:55.674+01:00Voces unidas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Fd8PNO0Q-zF8DvXaY2nEJTtGvLa9dOTj3cYc0GJfkjIenZuRtiqMTyBA_YqYtv6KFcerR6g1r6TUNoxP9ncoVPewEaEUFDHM70NH3n2A6TbOlXq2p6mPQYYhtYQv02UgZrl3fne4BrQ/s1600-h/IMG_9062.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Fd8PNO0Q-zF8DvXaY2nEJTtGvLa9dOTj3cYc0GJfkjIenZuRtiqMTyBA_YqYtv6KFcerR6g1r6TUNoxP9ncoVPewEaEUFDHM70NH3n2A6TbOlXq2p6mPQYYhtYQv02UgZrl3fne4BrQ/s320/IMG_9062.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400279405057727858" /></a><br />Voces que anuncian al unísono que el día quiere cerrar los ojos.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-17794428605432246612009-10-25T10:24:00.001+01:002009-10-25T10:25:35.321+01:00¿Hablamos?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SuQZenHT4lI/AAAAAAAABmE/EUfy2Ecixjs/s1600-h/IMG_9064.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SuQZenHT4lI/AAAAAAAABmE/EUfy2Ecixjs/s320/IMG_9064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396466267183112786" border="0" /></a><br />La caída de la tarde es momento para las confidenciasUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-42090939868139826712009-10-18T12:56:00.004+02:002009-10-18T13:07:49.392+02:00Reja con bocinas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZ2R8QZ3xWX99HeXQsxS0a2ZygevloaTLEVw5Rq_CiynSokYNudSreF2HAbOkiPyoYygF_7yOkKOy4d3JJRvqS8chc-CpF-d2K3Lrwpwabx8FBBJfDwkn7FbfS9noWYCYWPvWCAtr5ks/s1600-h/IMG_8688.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZ2R8QZ3xWX99HeXQsxS0a2ZygevloaTLEVw5Rq_CiynSokYNudSreF2HAbOkiPyoYygF_7yOkKOy4d3JJRvqS8chc-CpF-d2K3Lrwpwabx8FBBJfDwkn7FbfS9noWYCYWPvWCAtr5ks/s320/IMG_8688.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393894092328629522" /></a><br /><br />Curiosa casa a la salida de Barbastro.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/Str2wz3iODI/AAAAAAAABl0/dM8evq4UhfU/s1600-h/IMG_8684.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/Str2wz3iODI/AAAAAAAABl0/dM8evq4UhfU/s320/IMG_8684.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393894822146881586" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-21480281834163303652009-10-16T20:50:00.001+02:002009-10-16T20:52:10.016+02:00Distorsiones<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/StjAqt0noFI/AAAAAAAABlE/iJW6lBwBuAQ/s1600-h/IMG_9063.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/StjAqt0noFI/AAAAAAAABlE/iJW6lBwBuAQ/s320/IMG_9063.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393272393863503954" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-45716664378913655372009-10-12T20:44:00.003+02:002009-10-12T20:46:19.083+02:00Abandonada a la pintura<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/StN5X4U3-WI/AAAAAAAABk8/6NGV4QZM24M/s1600-h/IMG_9249.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/StN5X4U3-WI/AAAAAAAABk8/6NGV4QZM24M/s320/IMG_9249.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391786630056507746" border="0" /></a><br />Casa abandonada en Faro, que ha servido de inspiración al arte popular.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-53371748187179534382009-10-06T21:38:00.003+02:002009-10-06T21:43:46.596+02:00Bailarinas ausentes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/Ssudciir6uI/AAAAAAAABk0/WTXJraQJkEw/s1600-h/IMG_9247.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/Ssudciir6uI/AAAAAAAABk0/WTXJraQJkEw/s320/IMG_9247.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389574492713118434" border="0" /></a>Se diría que la danza espiritualiza, de tal modo que hace desaparecer en la nada a quien siente el sonido como algo propio.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2051335713711202008.post-8315934802760689262009-10-05T22:21:00.002+02:002009-10-05T22:26:48.413+02:00¡Qué despiste!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SspWBPm6RfI/AAAAAAAABks/PmgVIrDtvf0/s1600-h/IMG_9195.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_tU6joHWKpMY/SspWBPm6RfI/AAAAAAAABks/PmgVIrDtvf0/s320/IMG_9195.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389214483471812082" border="0" /></a>Parece que le hablaron del mar de olivos...y perdió el rumbo.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0