The Alcázar

 The General now lives in town;
He's eighty odd, they say;
You'll see him strolling up and down
The Prada any day.

He goes to every football game,
The bull-ring knows his voice,
And when the people cheer his name
Moscardo must rejoice.


Yet does he, in the gaiety
Of opera and ball,
A dingy little cellar see,
A picture on a wall?
A portrait of a laughing boy
Of sixteen singing years .
 .
 .

Oh does his heart dilate with joy,
Or dim his eyes with tears?

And can he hear a wistful lad
Speak on the telephone?
"Hello! How is it with you, Dad?
That's right - I'm all alone.

They say they'll shoot me at the dawn
If you do not give in .
 .
 .

But never mind, Dad - carry on:
You know we've got to win.
"

And so they shot him at the dawn.

No bandage irked his eyes,
A lonely lad, so wistful wan,
He made his sacrifice.

he saw above the Citadel
His flag of glory fly,
And crying: "long live Spain!" he fell
And died as heroes die.

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...