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 1 día 23 horas
Integró: 03/24/2011
Posts:
Points: 5088

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/Dedicada A MARIANITO Y POR QUÉ 0 536 04/05/2011 - 02:14 Español
Poesia/Dedicada HABER MI QUERIDA AMIGA 0 505 04/05/2011 - 02:06 Español
Poesia/Dedicada PARA TI NEGRA 0 571 04/05/2011 - 02:00 Español
Poesia/Dedicada A AVES MARÍA 0 1.729 04/05/2011 - 01:52 Español
Poesia/Dedicada A LA PELUQUERIA ELIANA 0 730 04/05/2011 - 01:39 Español
Poesia/Dedicada DESPUES DE TODO 0 528 04/05/2011 - 01:28 Español
Poesia/Dedicada NO ESTÉ NINGUNO 0 461 04/05/2011 - 01:24 Español
Poesia/Dedicada LES QUIERO HABLAR 0 435 04/05/2011 - 01:20 Español
Poesia/Dedicada UN PASO POR MI MENTE 0 434 04/05/2011 - 01:13 Español
Poesia/Meditación QUE MANERA TAN FACIL 0 358 04/05/2011 - 00:59 Español
Poesia/Acróstico A LA ENFERMERA 1 13.171 04/04/2011 - 16:25 Español
Poesia/Meditación CARTA ABIERTA 2 0 703 04/03/2011 - 20:31 Español
Poesia/Meditación MENSAJE 0 621 04/03/2011 - 20:25 Español
Poesia/Dedicada QUE FIGURA 0 581 04/03/2011 - 19:41 Español
Poesia/Dedicada ROMPÍ EL POEMA 0 1.662 04/02/2011 - 01:34 Español
Poesia/Acróstico AL PAPA PABLO II 0 3.125 04/02/2011 - 01:18 Español
Poesia/Acróstico ASI ENTRELAZADOS 0 1.086 04/02/2011 - 01:14 Español
Poesia/Acróstico AL PADRE NUESTRO 0 30.436 04/02/2011 - 01:11 Español
Poesia/Acróstico AL SACERDOTE 0 10.602 04/02/2011 - 01:07 Español
Poesia/Acróstico A LAS MUJERES 0 593 04/02/2011 - 01:01 Español
Poesia/Acróstico PROFESORA Y MADRE SÓIS 0 1.466 04/02/2011 - 00:55 Español
Poesia/Acróstico A LA MUJER ACRÓSTICOS 0 882 04/02/2011 - 00:41 Español
Poesia/Acróstico A LA MUJER ACRÓSTICOS 0 504 04/02/2011 - 00:41 Español
Poesia/Meditación SENTIR DE ABECEDARIO 0 1.494 04/02/2011 - 00:36 Español
Poesia/Acróstico AL MEDICO Y AL CARDIOLOGO 0 1.256 04/02/2011 - 00:28 Español