Tío Alberto

Gypsy or non-gypsy, could have been, or an aristocrat who yesterday lost his golden scepter and his crown. He walks over good and evil with the cadence of his waltz, half judgment and half mocking grin. Uncle Alberto... Uncle Alberto... He tasted all the wines, walked through a thousand paths, and docked from port to port. Between ruin and wealth, between lies and promises, he still knows how to smile. Uncle Alberto. He gives all he can give, his house is wide open. Whoever wants to enter, has a plate at the table. But he doesn't trade the sky for the Legion of Honor Order given to him by the French Republic. Uncle Alberto... Uncle Alberto... He still trembles with the engines, the girls and the flowers, with Vivaldi and Flamenco. He has the tenderness of a child and the madness of a poet, and still believes in love. Uncle Alberto. For you, the warm sun of this autumn, which you turned into spring, waltzes in grateful B-flat. The glass of my youth, I raise it to your health, King of the land of dreams and chimera. Uncle Alberto... Uncle Alberto... How lucky you are,