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.