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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!"
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