Carta a Un Artista

I greet you, brother, from some stage
That your wandering feet have surely stepped on.
A heartfelt memory, in a sincere embrace,
A few minutes before stepping out to sing.

I owe you a lot and I know what I owe you;
I wish I could give you back at least half.
We’re so different yet, still, I can
Say we’re like wheat, kneading the same bread.

Like men, we step into the dark and the silence
Of a packed room that comes to kiss us;
A territory filled with intrigues and mysteries
That, like those who suffer, we must conquer.

And that fire that rises to the stirrup of the soul,
That fire that calls us, that fire that is truth;
I’m so eager, brother, to take on its rage,
To jump on its boat and sail with it.

But there are roses that never get fully cut
And no matter how hard you try, you can’t get them;
Because they have thorns and you fear getting hurt
And so "they're more beautiful clinging to the bush."

You know well, my friend, that I’m not one to settle,
But the road is long and I’ve just begun.
I’m watering the tree and I must wait for it to sprout
So one day it can cast its shade.

And well, dear Antonio, we’ve reached the coda
And there are still more measures that wish to sound,
But we’re bound by time and it sets its rules
And the hour has come to step out and sing.