|
PADRE |
|
To each his Dulcinea |
|
That he alone can name... |
|
To each a secret hiding place |
|
Where he can find the haunting face |
|
To light his secret flame. |
|
For with his Dulcinea Beside him so to stand, |
|
A man can do quite anything, |
|
Outfly the bird upon the wing, |
|
Hold moonlight in his hand. |
|
Yet if you build your life on dreams |
|
It's prudent to recall, |
|
A man with moonlight in his hand |
|
Has nothing there at all. |
|
There is no Dulcinea, |
|
She's made of flame and air, |
|
And yet how lovely life would seem |
|
If ev'ry man could weave a dream |
|
To keep him from despair. |
|
To each his Dulcinea... |
|
Though she's naught but flame and air! |
