On Sunday of the end of summer, the laziness of the table, the plan for the sunset… And the concert of Ruper in Lizoain, but without tickets. Anyway, in any case we had more to lose going, to win; if the concert was not, know the village, walk and turn around. But there is always hope that COVID-19 will hold some hostage at home… They have allowed us to enter the church, at the top, sitting on the ground (we are young).

An acoustic and electric guitar comes in and on stage. Simple but elegant. The oñatiarra has started to play the guitar “Today is Sunday…”. He opened the concert with his best-known song (or the second) and Martin Larralde always appears at the end… I liked it. We were immersed in the same warmth and intimacy that you imagine imagining a concert in a small church of a small town. And I've remembered with a quote from Tatxers, the fashion group, "The church of our people, a new concert venue." If so in more places…

Ruper sings us to the truth, to the hearts, to the way, to the wind, to the time and to all of us. He comments that all members of the house would like a song of compounds, but there are many in the family… For the time being, he has done so to the father of the mother who lived in Gernika during the war: Elijah Ezkurdia. Something this musician has, I don't know what it is, something that he does as an artist. It has the ability to play a couple of guitar chords between the phrases and phrases that explain the song. He is not a singer of a group, but a soloist sometimes accompanied by a band, a real soloist. Calmly fill the tablate only with voice and guitar.

He has also given a song that speaks especially of his time, of his beauty. He explains that he does not believe that anyone can do anything outside his time, but that this song is especially of his time. “My eyes don’t want to pour tears,” and a giant crown has conquered the church of Lizoain. The climax of the concert, no doubt. The intensity has subsequently decreased, but it has not worsened as a result. It looks like it's not right near the sky to go with peace. Today I have learned that the latter is the translated word of Dionisio Cañas, an American poet who lived for years in Ciudad Real.

Ordorika has been short, correct and elegant, and we did not expect less. “As the trikitilaris said, call us again because I will come.” We will also return (with advance entry). Close with the best known, how not, take care of what you want and what you hate. I don't know if it's in Ciudad Real and North America, but it's OK under the clouds of Lizoain, over the brawls and near the sky.