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Poem	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.
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