AL MAESTRO

EL  MAESTRO                                                                                                                                                                                                     
El maestro es Ilusión                                                                                                                                                                                            Es esa mujer preñada                                                                                                                                                                                          Que irradia en cada pisada                                                                                                                                                                                El verde de la creación.                                                                                                                                                                            Entrega de corazón                                                                                                                                                                                               Arado sublime y granos                                                                                                                                                                                      Fecundando en los humanos                                                                                                                                                                          Luz de fe, sobre lo mundano                                                                                                                                                                                Consciente, que del futuro                                                                                                                                                                                    Él es el vientre y las manos.                                                                                                     

Si entre golpes del destino                                                                                                                                                                                La tragedia despiadada                                                                                                                                                                                    De un pueblo, no deja nada                                                                                                                                                                                  Un maestro abre el camino.                                                                                                                                                                          Entre el escombro asesino                                                                                                                                                                                Es la mano prodigiosa                                                                                                                                                                                       La mirada milagrosa                                                                                                                                                                                          Es la miel sobre el salitre                                                                                                                                                                                Que desde el noble pupitre                                                                                                                                                                           Planta vida en cada choza.                                                                                                          

Bajo todo movimiento                                                                                                                                                                                            Existe un maestro en pie                                                                                                                                                                                    Que se alimenta de fe                                                                                                                                                                                         Y arranca sueños al viento.                                                                                                                                                                           Ante el trágico momento                                                                                                                                                                                      Que trae sangrantes heridas                                                                                                                                                                              El maestro revive vida,                                                                                                                                                                                    Pues desde tiempos lejanos                                                                                                                                                                             Un maestro tiene mil manos                                                                                                                                                                              Que avivan cosas dormidas.                                                                                                         

Sin el maestro  no hay confianza                                                                                                                                                                        Él no  tiene marcha atrás                                                                                                                                                                                    Es ese labriego audaz                                                                                                                                                                                 
Que se siente en su labranza,                                                                                                                                                                          Ese que siembra esperanza                                                                                                                                                                                Sobre piedras, con porfía                                                                                                                                                                                  Sin el maestro, no sería                                                                                                                                                                                     El hombre la fértil fuente                           
De evolución permanente                                                                                                                                                                                  El mundo se estancaría.

Mery Suescún.

Submited by

Lunes, Mayo 20, 2019 - 21:10

Poesia :

Sin votos aún

PEDRO NEL JIMENEZ CASTAÑEDA

Imagen de PEDRO NEL JIMENEZ CASTAÑEDA
Desconectado
Título: Membro
Last seen: Hace 2 años 3 semanas
Integró: 03/24/2011
Posts:
Points: 5898

Comentarios

Imagen de J. Thamiel

coment

muy bonita, felicitaciones

Add comment

Inicie sesión para enviar comentarios

other contents of PEDRO NEL JIMENEZ CASTAÑEDA

Tema Título Respuestas Lecturas Último envíoordenar por icono Idioma
Poesia/Amor QUE ES LA MUJER? 0 1.424 03/24/2011 - 21:50 Español
Poesia/Amor SIN TI MUJER 0 1.775 03/24/2011 - 21:53 Español
Poesia/Amor PARA TI MUJER 0 1.183 03/24/2011 - 21:55 Español
Poesia/Amor ERES TU MUJER 0 1.080 03/24/2011 - 22:00 Español
Poesia/Amor A TODAS ELLAS 0 1.755 03/24/2011 - 22:04 Español
Poesia/Amor ERES DIVINA MUJER 0 1.565 03/25/2011 - 16:22 Español
Poesia/Amor COMO DIOS TE HIZO 0 2.460 03/25/2011 - 16:27 Español
Poesia/Amor QUIERO SER 0 2.080 03/25/2011 - 16:30 Español
Poesia/Meditación COMO EL TRISTE SILENCIO 0 1.352 03/25/2011 - 17:10 Español
Poesia/Amor NO QUIERO AMOR DE PALABRA 0 1.113 03/25/2011 - 17:12 Español
Poesia/Dedicada POR QUÉ NO TE CALLAS? 0 800 03/25/2011 - 17:18 Español
Poesia/Meditación ¿COMO VAMOS A AMARNOS? 1 1.373 03/25/2011 - 23:39 Español
Poesia/Meditación RAZON TENIA EL ABUELO 0 1.348 03/29/2011 - 00:25 Español
Poesia/Amor SIEMPRE POR TI 0 656 03/29/2011 - 00:31 Español
Poesia/Dedicada UN TITULO ADQUIRIDO 0 1.435 03/29/2011 - 00:38 Español
Poesia/Dedicada SIEMPRE SERÁS MAMÁ 0 675 03/29/2011 - 01:06 Español
Poesia/Dedicada LA FORTUNA DE TENERTE 0 3.644 03/29/2011 - 01:14 Español
Poesia/Dedicada SI PUEDEN SER 0 1.104 03/29/2011 - 01:21 Español
Poesia/Dedicada OH MANOS DELICADAS 0 1.269 03/30/2011 - 15:10 Español
Poesia/Dedicada HABLAR DE VIEJOS 0 1.629 03/30/2011 - 15:13 Español
Poesia/Dedicada EN UN PASADO 0 550 03/30/2011 - 15:20 Español
Poesia/Dedicada QUE SERÁ LO QUE NOS PASA? 0 566 03/30/2011 - 15:36 Español
Poesia/Dedicada SI NO SABEIS LO QUE TIENES 0 1.402 03/30/2011 - 15:53 Español
Poesia/Dedicada EL TITULO QUE QUIERAS 0 942 03/30/2011 - 16:08 Español
Poesia/Dedicada LO QUE PUDO HABER SIDO 0 1.250 03/30/2011 - 16:16 Español