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Forthcoming edited version,

Poet and playwright. The Philippines Islands.

March 12, 2005

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Awesome! :roll:

(Don't forget to post a link to your website! You can also add it to both your profile and to your signature. artfreaks.com has an open linking policy!) :grin:

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Hemingway's Africana/Cafe Havana.

Ambience motifs layered the stairs up to its entrance and once within,

the whole room lit with artifacts from the African continent.

Carving your presence through the room, to the table a menu arrived.

The persistent coughs brought me to the shores of your mind,

Then, came the query: "do you have asthma?"

As humidifier took on the labor of cleansing the air,

distracting the coughs was your gliding presence, back and forth through the cafe.

The persistent coughs needed remedy,

and Calamansi was prescribed.

Time came to a halt,

in your presence,

and constellations spooned the stars...

The fabric woven into your skin,

between heavens and earth, biological rhythms flowed.

As smooth long white legs revealed a sensuality of its own.

Imagination soared to unexplored regions of body and soul.

The view completely rose to the imagination of many moons

on cosmic shores.

Your sensuality devoured.

In midst of the fire within,

Eyes

mine,

Smiles

mine,

And lips

yours...

Momentarily had to gather all thoughts,

for your mesmerizing sensuality,

Soon...

Copyright, March 12, 2008.

Eduardo A. Cong,

Poet and playwright.

e_cong@msn.com

The Philippines Islands.

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Two Bright Eyes Children

A picture,

Of two beautiful souls joined together by kinship,

and patriarchs were conspicuously absent.

Its legitimacy, you have questioned,

in appearance of two beautiful souls.

Another picture,

Two bright eyed spirit children,

Matriarchy caring, loving and ever present, she

never doubts, whose child they are.

They play side by side,

Sure of their kinship and loyalty to each other,

their love is never a doubt.

Admiring the dignity and respect you proffered,

Two beautiful souls, unawares oftentimes of their beloved flaws,

They still love.

Aware of the innocence in two bright eyed spirit children,

no longer you question,

and you just love.

Eduardo A. Cong

Poet and playwright, The Philippines Islands.

March 24, 2005

This is for a remarkable friend! Maraming Salamat!

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She sounds interesting! :grin:

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Ok. This here is some more from Eduardo. (It was part of a personal letter to me, regarding the posting of his pictures in the Photographers' Gallery)

I hope that I haven't infringed any copyrights, Eduardo but I just thought that it was too good to waste! So here it is...

These pictures are a personal journey. In time, you will find the lives behind these scenes; it is part of a playwright sharing of his work, with the world...first and foremost with, bagoon kapit bahay, in the Pearl of the Orient.

 

Thanks for posting those pictures for me, really appreciate it. Seaman for thirty years? Transform that feeling, my friend.

 

In each dancing waves, see your little girls eyes, their smiles, in the sunrise and sunset, of each horizon, their hearts shine upon your thoughts, and a smile upon the memories shared beside them...They're precious and this journey, you will not be doing it over, again!.

MAKE THE BEST OF IT;

leave footprints on the sands of time!!!

Eduardo

 

Postscriptum: Take care of yourself, their silence awaits anxiously your return. Make sure to send them something, from every coastline you dock into... They will cherish it !!!

 

 

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French Indochina while in America was growing from another generation of Asian emigres. The war was to claim so many lives and the seeds in your eyes, have seen.

To many, the soulless origins of their discontent were in the light of their perspectives. It was time for healing and tangent steps were taken by a gentle Spirit-soul.

She sat at a table next to me, in focused study, next to me she was.

As the music progressed, the evening was young and, she iced focused.

Intermitent pauses were taken to talk and break the focused routine, with her friends.

Adjacent to the evening was the music, and the rhyming to her almond eyes.

She continued her readings and the heat of the evening was warming the table, and all surroundings.

The pen felt, from a distance, her heart beats. Ink had to be given to a blank sheet of paper. Her reflections from a mirror had given another view of her soul.

To a picture denied, an impression of the soul, while present, had to be drawn. The exchange in a silent language was continually in mind. As the pen drew the night to a close, work continued, mine and hers.

Shirt came off, laying bare her back, and seducing the night was her physique.

Revealing an Asian goddess in fair complexion and smiles,

this pen was left to wonder

if the night had just started or,

the dawn on Mandarin heaven had just began...

Leaving nothing to chance,

shared the same heavens we sat under,

while in a coffeehouse,

in America,

and leaving nothing to chance,

She knew...

Copyright, Monday, May 30th, 2005

Eduardo A. Cong,

Poet and playwright, San Diego, CA; USA.

Thanks for the gift, of your gentle Spirit-soul, Ms. Q. T. French Indochina/Vietnam.

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Seaman for thirty years? Transform that feeling, my friend.

In each dancing waves, see your little girls eyes, their smiles, in the sunrise and sunset, of each horizon, their hearts shine upon your thoughts, and a smile upon the memories shared besides them...They're precious and this journey, you will not be doing it over, again!.

MAKE THE BEST OF IT;

leave footprints on the sands of time!!!

Eduardo

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Circle of Love. . .

Create a circle of love for the children who speak not,

for they know only to play and love.

Create a greater circe of love, for those children who have found themselves in the midst of grown up problems. Unable to articulate the lost, yet feel it and know nor what it is all about.

There is this feeling Mama that you're lost for words to explain this conspicuous absence.

Suddenly, an infant is drawn into another world, and your face becomes that of a stranger?

It is the "sikat nang araw" upon these waves, dancing on the sparkling gold hues of those waves. Behind me was Remedios Circle, almost vacant, leading me back home.

A jeepney ride away from Mabini and Remedios Street,

as th rising of the sun, echoes your voice. . .

No longer away,

and

Joy returns in the presence of you,

ready to play, once again,

your love emerges from distant shores.

In a greater circle of love,

it returns,

reminding me,

that you were always there. . .

Copyright, May 30th, 2005.

Eduardo A. Cong

Poet and playwright,

Plaza Boulevard, National City, CA

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In One Picture Frame, All.

For Humberto.

From the shadow of childhood comes your memory.

Distant to some

and to others,

it came numbed.

By the choices made, the news came of your demise. Was it timely?

While the withered leaves of memories danced on the mind's eyes,

The jokes you played, while yet a teenager and the consequences of grown actions, too late to advise, or even warn of its consequences.

Distance was never an excuse, given the electronic world we live in. Just different lives lead, and the choices we made. Would you had heard me, even if I screamed across the room of the risks taken.

Remembered two years ago, gums shown in laughter, that replaced the shining ivory of teeth's you had. The advises given on the streets we had grown on, and played together.

"Be careful" was the word.

Destiny reflected in the temple you lived in, the excesses you had inflicted on the fragile house of the soul. Though young, you lived one hundred lives. Still yet, the continuing laughter filled that tropical air in my lungs we shared, as if to numb the pain you lived in.

We talked and recollected the days of our childhood. Each relative in a different world from the one you lived in, the open theater of life. The others, in sheltered caves, secure and protected from the social predators you dealt with on a daily basis. Not one, ever questioning your survival skills, and you continued to live on, day after day. . .

Finally, the risks you took and the choices you made, had taken its tolls. The apocalypse horse rider had arrived. Silently, in the dusk of your sleep, you mounted that horse. The tremors from the galloping horse never woke you, or even scared you.

The pain seen and felt,

all in one picture frame,

as you continuously struggled in selling your cigarettes on the street corners, of many social outcast lives. From a mere pack of cigarette, you were able to extract a livelihood. Where was this pen to find another long lost relative, within reach of your consciousness.

The system had taken its tolls by the choices you made.

Now, all in one picture frame,

seen and remembered were the laughter we shared.

Leaves,

withered leaves danced in the memory of your absence,

and blown in a tropical moisture, am asked to offer a thought,

while all in one picture frame it returns. . .

Finally, free again,

to remember the journey, your goal.

For "in nature," and we are all children of nature,

"nothing is lost; nothing is gained, merely transformed."

Eduardo A. Cong

Poet and playwright. San Diego, CA; USA.

The conclusion was quoted from Antoine Laviosier's notes, a renaissance French Chemist

Postscriptum: A. Camus was killed in a car accident while driving to Paris. He was with his friend and publisher, Michel Gallimard, in January 1960. His quote, concluding my entries, was taken from l'invincible Ete,<<< The Invincible Summer. After Rudyard Kilpling, Albert Camus was the youngest recipient of the Nobel prize for literature.

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Celestine Fire.

For Lenora, NY.

Snow never came, though very cold,
and the underground roar of that silver dragon
belched its heat
from each stop.

Entering and exiting the subways
were the trails layered with steps
from commuters
racing against time.
The snow had not the time
or place to sit on,
as the devouring dragon consumed each rider,
as well as the snowflakes before departing the clouds.

It was a transforming fire
upon each dancing crystals of hydrogen and oxygen
long before its descent on the concrete jungle.
Amazingly enough,
the weather did not halter the predators or, prey?s survival skills.
The festive mood was prevalent all through Manhattan?s face and joining the crowd was a stranger in paradise.

Dressed in all black attire was the elusive stranger,
As if giving time a new meaning in a city that never sleeps
by walking slowly.

Steps were barely noticeable from its full length black coat worn. Its continuing motion contrasted with the commuters rushing by through its shadowed silhouette.

Simultaneously,
at North General Hospital,
speechless,
his guest?s voice was completely void from the years of smoking.
She wittingly waited, as she was rushed from intensive care, into a general room. Any prayer aloud was silenced by the effects of the consumption of far too many charcoals born from nicotine.
Charcoals that stood defiantly along the respiratory track,
strangling thousands of living cells,
of life . . .

Though the inevitable were yet to come to many relatives and friends;
the stranger kept focused and walking towards his destiny.
Greenwich Village was littered with people,
and quite a distance from the destined meeting place.

A couple of a thousand of miles away,
before an ultimatum had been given, and finalized. The firmament stood still in principle of physics.
She asked: ?When is your vacation??
From that moment on, a series of events became unleashed.
The stranger in paradise recessed the journey, subject to the principles of cause and effect . . .

Light began to shine, on the periphery of each cell,
an implosion,
at the molecular,
cellular level . . .

Quantum Physics began its manifestation,
in the very source of all life,
energy within another traveler?s soul took on its role.
Some call it faith,
others know it as light,
Initiates have always known it as the Celestine fire . . .



Copyright December 16, 2005
Eduardo A. Cong.
Poet and playwright.
New York, N.Y. USA.

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Celestine Fire II

Another winter in New York City,

as seasons from the sun, defined a region.

La Guardia seemed so different this time,

as she anticipated a traveler?s arrival.

This journey was never new.

It had been done in nano seconds of her echo, ?when is your vacation??

The soul traveled then as now, in dimensions unknown to the common mind.

Wherein distance,

time

and regions are all the same.

The Initiate arrival recessed destiny of the Apocalypse rider . . .

Reciprocal respect was in place for this cause and effect relationship.

The circle was complete.

Copyright, December 30, 2005

Eduardo A. Cong.

Poet and playwright.

New York. N. Y. USA.

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Piel Canela

Para Lisa S.

"Tunay Kayumangin Kaligatan."

En tu Piel Canela,

canto al tr?pico de las Filipinas,

y aunque a una distancia de ella,

me llen?ste la pluma

de tinta.

Al f?n,

pude escribir esa tarde.

Y,

porque fuiste la tinta,

pude yo,

escribir. . .

Las palomas callejeras del centro de Manila

ten?an que cederte el paso,

y

yo,

crearte

un pasaje. . .

Tu sonrisa, casi celestial,

vest?a una noche llena de estrellas luminosamente placenteras.

A?nque en c?rculos ajenos a tu voluntad,

te prohibieron hablar,

y de peor,

estar con el poeta, ?ang makata.?

Como las estrellas,

que despiertan en el oscuro vientre de la noche;

quise que despertaras.

Entre los comentarios est?riles, el desierto de ?amistades,?

que llen? tus o?dos.

Decidir,

entre luz y oscuridad,

luz en existencia por necesidad de la otra,

siendo partes de la misma energ?a

Llevar?an a tus puertas,

la plena conciencia de luz.

Y el poeta, ?ang makata,?

simplemente

esperar,

en fantasia . . .

Copyright, August 15, 2005.

Eduardo A. Cong.

Poet and playwright,

Balboa Park, San Diego, CA; USA.

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"After we have mastered the waves, tides and gravity, we shall harness for god, the energies of love. Then, for the second time in the history of mankind, we would have discovered fire."

Dr. Pierre Teilhard deChardin, Jesuit priest, Physical Anthropologist, Poet, Theologian, Philosopher, etc.

For the readers, thanks!

Am continually humbled in the interests given these thoughts, wings. As soon as time permits, will have an active website.

Victor, my UK/Philippines' best kaibigan has beeen more than generous in allowing these expressions, in all of its flaws.

Thanks, Merci, Gracias, Salamat, Xie_xie!

Eduardo A. Cong.

Poet and playwright.

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My Lai, March 16, 1968.

This is written posthumously for
Hugh Thompson,
Lawrence Colburn
And Glenn Andreotta.


Thundering from below
and drowning the blades of the silver bird spiraling wing above was the sound of bullets.

From above,
the view of elders, women and children,
all civilians, fleeing in desperation.
As the carnage of bullets kept tumbling down human lives, into the field below.
Aflame were the straw huts spewing black smoke to the skies,
and to a camouflaged silver bird,
it was sign for help.

So much smoke filling the lungs,
just like the twin towers which were symbolic targets with our loved ones
completely unawares,
at home,
of the external bridges
our bureaucrats had burned
to ashes.

Darkness wore so many faces, then and now . . .

Then,
therein short distances from the rice patties were those heat-seeking missiles pointing at obvious noncombatants,
similar to the infernal fire that had devoured those towers in cincture
with volcanic heat,
at obvious innocent lives.

Darkness wore so many faces, then and now . . .

We knew better.
We had been trained in higher standards.
Military Conduct, Geneva Convention, and treatment of prisoners had protocols in documents.


In light of the above,
one courageous soldier lead.
In so doing, restored dignity to our troops during Indochina .

In view of this scene, the silver bird momentarily kept silent, as if to give sounds to the voices of mothers and children screaming from their ground zero.

Spiraling wings slowed down, the silver bird descent in the midst of the fire. It was not bullet proof, but conscience proof of the lives at risk on the other side of her. Instinctually, the effort was to protect, shelter against humanity callousness, and the ensuing carnage.

The silver bird gunner pointing his higher power with enough arsenals to light the dawn, and halt the continuing slaughter.

One humble giant, single-handedly went to light the way.

Man, the creator of the most astonishing mechanical accomplishment of the century was unable to harness, that kindled flame burning in all life,
its love . . .

Complete obscurity, one and the same, My Lai and New York City, touching thousands of lives, for generations to come of so many friends . . .

New York City's ground zero memoirs may have invoked the lines, but it was My Lai's hero passing, a torch of those times, a hero's courage that shone,
and shaped these thoughts . . .

During My Lai, it was not, a symbolic target destruction.

It was as real as the keys of this notebook, with each keystroke, its touching motion creating the symbols of communications, the field was catching the lives tumbled by the arsenal. Just as the concrete pavement was catching those who took flight, from below the 101st floor of the Twin Towers . . .

In flight,
so many souls were released during My Lai and the Twin Towers . . .



Copyright, January 9, 2006
Eduardo A. Cong
Poet and playwright,
San Diego, CA. USA

As a student of history, cognizant of French and USA incursion in Vietnam, and the recent passing of Hugh Thompson, this was written . . .

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^ Thank you for sharing that very moving piece of prose with us.

"Awesome" is a highly over-used word these days but I can't find a better one to describe your work...

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Costa del Sol.

Marbella,

Rinconcillo y

Estepona,

sobre tus orillas y playas camin?.

Cu?n hermosa

eran tus distantes arenas.

Sentado sobre una roca

al pies del Mediterr?neo,

bajo una noche llena de estrellas,

la memoria de tu sonrisa en una flor llev?.

En esa ausencia,

tu palpitantemente presencia,

llen? esta noche de tu silencio

tan permanente como estas arenas de Marbella.

Dando hogar al vac?o en estas playas del

Mediterr?neo,

tus labios

y tu voz.

Cada vez,

que a su alrededor paseaba,

en t? pensaba.

Aunque me llenas de memorias

en cada grano de arena,

En t?,

poesia ve?a.

Si por casualidad hall? una flor

entre lo oscuro de tu cabellera,

y tus orejas,

es porque de tus labios,

tu sonrisas,

llenaron mi noche de la fragrancia tuya

como una flor.

Copyright, Monday, October 27, 2003

Eduardo A. Cong, Poet and playwright,

Algeciras, Spain.

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Coreograf?a en el Cielo.

For Lisa S.

Tunay Kayumangin Kaligatan,

Her feet were as light as the clouds in heavens,

and if eagles were in soaring flight,

she seemed to have danced upon more than a surface of a tree,

perhaps, its leaves.

The music, with its percussions beats,

rhythmically shared steps of heartfelt beats.

Senza catene, in her dance,

as the waves, combing through the sands of Palawan beaches.

Puerto Princesa was just a short distance away

and still yet,

she remained silent to the keys of these thoughts.

Upon a notebook,

as an island,

she remained, unwittingly or is it witting, silent?

She was in her silence,

as the pen soared in flight,

focused and drawn solemnly to the sounds of heartfelt beats,

percussively above the waves

she appears, magically, to have been walking on.

Culture being the blue print for behavior,

lighting needed to lead for the percussions of the thunder.

Intermittent thoughts conceived was seen and heard while walking between worlds,

yet wings needed to rise above the oceans of the world,

and for the initiate?s soaring to be complete,

Wind and Oceans meet . . .

Copyright, January 21, 2006.

Eduardo A. Cong

Poet and playwright,

San Diego, CA. USA.

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Wushu,

Kung fu is like oceans crashing against the rocks,

tidal waves rising into the sky,

Tsunamis . . .

So much power,

and grace in those fluid movements,

aspects of aspects . . .

Tai Chi Ch?uan, is gentle as the clouds in heavens,

and as fluids as the rivers.

Rising far beyond the waves,

in depth and breadth, it remains.

Tai Chi Ch?uan seems to have begun

from pure rain,

in heavens,

touching the earth?s mountains first.

Its journey,

traversing the lands of the wealthy and the humblest of souls,

having to fertilize the lives of so many.

Finally,

giving freely of its wisdom

to the oceans of the world . . .

Choices being made on every dawn of the soul,

on the wings of a dragonfly she danced,

whispering into the universe . . .

Copyright, January 30, 2006.

Eduardo A. Cong

Poet and playwright,

Balboa Park, San Diego, CA. USA.

Revised on February 3, 2006.

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Fuego Celestino 3.

Para Lenora W.

El Iniciante

lleg? a la ciudad que nunca duerme,

Nueva York.

Durante el viaje,

el rumbido constante del avi?n,

llen? las horas del viaje con memorias oscilantes de su juventud,

de sus a?os de mocedad

y asombrosamanete,

ese viaje lleg? a una velocidad incre?blemente r?pida.

El pasaje a su alrededor,

enteramente blanca y llena de nubes.

Nubes tan resplancecientes que cegaban,

en la ausencia de lentes oscuras, cegaban completamente.

Esperando, de ni?a a mujer, esper? a una distancia inmensa.

Su esp?ritu libre, en un santuario d?bil, esper? su defensa ante una inquisici?n contempor?nea.

La ni?a,

a?nque en el presente mujer,

esper? en una inocencia.

Apareciendo en el horizonte, jinetes gigantesco del destino apocal?ptico perfilandose contra un espiritu libre, en u santuario debilitado por las circunstancias y el tiempo.

Al ver al Iniciante, solamente cabalgaron, en compaňia, a su alrededor.

Por razones inexplicables,

el l?der no se acerc?, ni su compaňia atrevieron asomar una mirada, en esta misi?n.

Mientras que la esperanza llenaba el vac?o y la oscuridad.

Como gotas de agua que brotaban del cielo,

lluvia no era, solamente l?grimas compasionante del Iniciante,

en cada gota, reflejaba una luz intensa.

Luci?rnaga no era.

Luna no era.

Sol tampoco,

Simplementa, una la luz Celestina . . .

Copyright, Febrero 3, 2006

Eduardo A. Cong

Poeta y dramaturgo, Nueva York, N. Y. E. U. Revisado Febrero 4, 2006

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transl.

Celestine Fire 3.

For Lenora W.

The Initiate

arrived in a city that never sleeps,

New York City.

During the journey,

the constant rumble of the plane

filled the hours with spinning memories of his youth,

of his childhood,

and amazingly enough,

it came very fast.

The scenery around

was entirely white and full of clouds.

So bright were these clouds that in the absence of dark shades, were blinding.

Waiting,

from a child now a woman,

was an immense distance.

Her free Spirit, in a weak temple, waited for her defense before a contemporary inquisition . . .

The child,

though at present a woman,

patiently sat in her innocence.

On the horizon were those gigantic silhouetted apocalyptic horse riders from destiny.

They were in a strategic circle against her free Spirit and a weakened vessel by the circumstances and time. Upon the appearance of the initiate, they remained in their circle, and just circled around.

For reasons unknown,

its leader did not come near, and the remainder dared not peek over for their prize in this mission.

While hope filled the emptiness and darkness,

like the mist from heaven, rain it was not.

Just the tears of a compassionate Initiate,

in each tear, were the reflections of an intense light.

Firefly, it was not.

Moon, it was not.

It was neither the Sun,

Simply a Celestine light . . .

Copyright, February 3, 2006.

Eduardo A. Cong. Poet and playwright, New York, N.Y. USA.

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^ Awesome! I like it!

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^ Awesome! I like it!

Maraming Salamat,

Oftentimes, with the gift to describe with so many words, the many shades of light, and its complementing parts, darkness. Find myself speechless, kaibigan. Am humbled, enjoined hands, and extending a bow, proffer to you, and all, NAMASTE.

Postscriptum: Originally means, I honor the divine in you.

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This is just a test . . . Problems in posting.

Alhambra . . .

Alhambra, you shone above. All, Andalucian cities had seen.

Your splendor amidst the thick tropical foliage surrounding your castle,

The carefully engineered irrigation system of pools and waterfalls,

the combined sustaining pillars and towers,

and even channels were designed to keep you eternally

a garden

in the future of mankind?s

children

mind . . .

We had a story to tell,

and across the Gibraltar we chose to tell it.

From afar,

for posterity to know

we were then,

very ancient souls . . .

The wizardry you caste on the entire Europe, was equaled by none given the time you appeared.

In a Moslem world of your own,

A god and prophet of your own, you Africa, were the cradle of mankind?s birth

and in this fact,

you shone.

Bienvenue, Adam and Eve . . .

The distinctions and subtleties in semantics,

whether of Moorish, Arab, and Jewish hues,

in which your genius shone

for us to know that you were

Unequaled then,

and leaving ample documentary records to testify of your genius . . .

We had a story to tell . . .

While had been walking the paved streets of cobbled stone you created,

the tolerance you accepted as a way of life,

from Christians and Berber?s faith,

alike . . .

Inhaling of the tree?s moisture in this walk,

I heard the loud waterfalls stream down the channels you created,

For all to enjoy,

as you did yesterday.

The seventh century was a the creation in ?Europa,?

Of another civilizing wave,

while in a motion-filled stream,

the symbols you created remains,

after centuries of your absence,

your tactful presence

for generations and generations

on mankind?s

mind . . .

We had a documented story to share.

It is no mistake upon entering C?rdoba, Spain,

we find the greeting:

?The City of the Patrimony of mankind?

Copyright, Monday, October 27, 2003.

Eduardo A. Cong.

Poet and playwright.

Granada, Spain.

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