48 fotografías en color de Juan Pablo II y la Ciudad del Vaticano, incluyendo su Bendición Apostólica, la Guardia Suiza, la Plaza de San Pedro, Basílica Papal de San Pedro en el Vaticano, la Plaza de San Pedro como un lugar de peregrinación santa, la Iglesia Católica Romana, obras de arte, esculturas de mármol y estatuas, arquitectura antigua, los mosaicos del piso; vistas de Roma desde la cúpula de la Iglesia de San Pedro (diseñado por Miguel Ángel,) una estatua de la Virgen María con el Niño Jesús y del Rostro de Jesús se muestra en una piedra mortaja. Tomado durante un corto descanso, vacaciones económicas Roma, Italia 10 10 al 17 2004. [Fotografía de la portada: Papa Juan Pablo II saludando a las multitudes de su 'Papa móvil' en San Pedro, Plaza de San Pedro, Ciudad del Vaticano, Roma, Italia] [Española Versión]
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About the Author
Interview with Llewelyn Pritchard: Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing? I grew up on the Black Mountain north of Swansea, South Wales. I haven't really got a clue how this influenced my writing except I suppose it instilled in me a great love of nature, adventure and the outdoors. I am the son of an elite collier and I would much rather take this opportunity to dedicate this great poem to his memory:
"My father was a miner, He worked deep underground;
The rush of drams and clanking chains. They were his daily sounds.
He worked so far below the ground. Where coal was hewed by pick,
The work so hard and wages small He didn't dare go sick.
He crawled upon his belly. In drifts so low and narrow,
The wind it whistled down the shaft. It chilled him to the marrow.
He ate his food from a Tommy box, Shaped like a slice of bread,
While squatting down upon the ground, Where spit and crumbs were shed.
His water, it was in a Jack, to wet down clouds of dust,
That gathered daily in his throat and lungs. Where it formed a deadly crust.
We would listen for his footsteps, He then came into sight:
This man, our Dad, as black as black, just like the darkest night;
Right down his back white rivers ran amongst the dirt and grime,
But you cannot wash away blue scars. That you get down the mine.
Years now have passed. My father gone, But I am proud to say,
My Father was a miner, until his dying day."
by William Holden