Echoes of Hemingway
In Tortosa’s quiet streets, where shadows gently lay,
a whisper still remains of tales from yesterday.
Ernest, with his pen in hand, amidst the battle’s roar,
captured the world’s wild dance, on Catalonia’s shore.
With every stroke, the ink did flow, like blood upon the sand,
a story of human struggle, written by his hand.
In ruins where the silence speaks, his spirit wanders free,
a light in the darkest times, for all eternity.
No war reporter now, yet echoes never fade,
the last to write of battles where light and dark conveyed.
Oh, Hemingway, the world you saw with eyes so brave and bold,
a story of courage told in whispers yet untold.
May every word you’ve left behind in Tortosa’s air,
remind us of the price of peace, and of the weight we bear.
For in the heart of history, your legacy shall lie,
a poet of the battlefield, beneath the Catalan sky.
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