Bolero Nostálgico Para Artistas Emigrados

Hello, Stockholm, how's it going, Mr. Violin?
Is the symphony treating you well
and being the first chair?
I know sometimes the cold hits hard
and the language is a drag
that won't let you live.
I know you prefer the charanga
but the world is a steal
and it doesn't give you a choice.

Hello, Caracas, how's it going, Ms. Talia?
How's the struggle going
of living off soap operas?
I know a melodrama is preferable
than being the first lady
of a theater with no show.
I know your beauty is fading
and it's better in Santa Rita
than in the Luyanó neighborhood.

And I love you through the mists of my choir.
I adore you, I adore you
and I have vital pains for you.
And among the medieval dogmas, I defend you.
I understand you, I understand you
and I hope you do the same for me.

Hello, Miami, how's it going, Mr. Landscape?
The ticket was one-way,
I knew that even the Emir.
I know nothing inspires and pisses you off,
carring water in your old Poma
just to get by.
If one day you forget the mangroves
through cell phone texts,
I'll send them back to you.

Hello, Canary Islands, how's it going, Mr. Poet?
I heard about the speech
you gave on Radio Martí.
Don't let your inspired writings
be for just one condemned soul,
or it might come back to haunt you.
And I hope in that profane land
the drinks are healthier
than the bouquet of sugar.

Here’s Havana, on the other side of the line.
I’ll trade you my grass
for a story from Paris.
We’re running around like whores in Lent
each with our own rules
or a subtle period.
Remember me on a day of neuralgia
and in your room and with nostalgia,
save a spot for me.