Sitting watch the sunset fade in the hills north of Artes. Behind us are the remains of a terraced walls, buttresses and arches. Above a square strips. The old
Artes dominates the town square from the top of the hill. At the sides of houses spread down the slopes leading to the south. But homes are lifeless. The blinds are pierced, dirty, broken. The glass shattered, the walls covered with dust and peeling. An area which is no more noble that the back of a small village on the outskirts of Barcelona.
And to embody everything we think the church steeple.
The Catalan flag stands idle on the tip of the ear drum, while below two long openings expose the bells from the rooftops. Not below remains a fascinating wall, modulated by a small door and the principle of an arc.
Austere and blind in light tower stretches twilight horizon, guardian of a cathedral of dreams that no longer exists.
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