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Maestro Córdoba

 
The  Artist
The concert hall is hushed.
Under the spotlight he sits
and dreams
of  Spain.
His fingers touch the strings
and
you are there.
You feel Spain's throbbing heart,
Know it's passion, glory and its suffering
He is the complete master of the guitar;
As the beautiful notes fall among the audience,
You fear waterfalls, sobbing people,
Even bagpipes, for the Celts wandered through Spain
And left their music
In hidden places in the hills.
You weep with defeated Moorish king, As
he,
fleeing, defeated in battle pauses in the hills
for
a last look at the incomparable beauty
of his beloved Alhambra

The Teacher
To earn his daily bread
He teaches other bumbling fools and me
To play his revered instrument.
He faces each lesson with patient good humor;
With courtly manners he forgives you
each transgression.

The Man

Although he is an exile far from home,
He does not rail against his fate;
He has made peace with the world
And lives with it in harmony.
If he has sunshine, birds' song, good friends,
good food, a fine brandy
and a  good cigar,
He is content.
He never hurries
And lives each day its leisured pace.
His is not rich in worldly goods.
But of all the men I know
He is the only one of whom I can say three things:
"He is a  gentleman,
A happy man,
And a success!"

 


                                    


"For My Teacher, Maestro Córdoba"
Kathy Gilbert