Querido Frankie

I want to write a song with the smile of a child
The body of a guitar and the lips of my dreams
That has the soul of the neighborhood and the beats of a rhythm
The eyelids of the cinema, the afro hair of jazz
I want to write a track with the direction of a staff
The pelvis of a recital and all the blues of Havana
One that’s rap from sheets of freedom
That turns every mental disorder into superpowers
A rap song that has the ears of a microphone
That’s half drunk and half philosopher
That wanders without a metronome and like an angel
That whispers to Cupid with phrases from samples
The song of a navigator who loves soul
The face of a score and the madness of the saxophone
That has a heart shaped like a quarter note
And fights with percussion against heartbreak and its odyssey
A song that wants to tag the sky
To escape from despair, hate, and hopelessness
I long for a song made from the material of my kisses
That its two hundred six bones are millions of verses
A track composed of the gestures of language
And that inherits from poetry the beauty of its aroma
A track that’s the soundtrack of the cinema it adores
And that has no memory of a model, but of a jukebox

I want to write myself a song with the cheeks of exile
Where reliefs to existence find pages of books
The idyl of gravity in the steps of an astronaut
A song that has the belly button of a flute
That look that enchants me and sings me a ballad
The voice that only has a trumpet in love
I want to write myself a song that’s happy with nothing
Except for the essence given by a fairy
The whisper of a track that sails on a palate
And that its shadow takes the shape of a musical note
Its mouth so sensual and just like the walk of paragraphs
The skin of the paragraphs and the most magical breasts
The mouth of the classics and handclaps
That has the black keys of a piano like polka dots
A track that’s a soprano MC or tenor
Owner of the flavor that only the drum has
I want to write myself a song with the breath
Of a trombone playing notes of revolution
The back of a line, the humming of the wind
The freckles of the harmonica and the claps of a concert
The loneliness I feel and its girlfriend the chapel
I want to write myself a song that educates in schools
That reaches the stars without having to grow big
A song that’s named dear Frankie