Salzanitos

My children will be trumpeters, or they will be nothing
I forbid them surgeons, architects
Much less bankers, stock market men

They will be trumpeters, wonders from childhood
In one shoe the eighth note
In the other shoe the sixteenth notes
Then life will buy them the bag
I give them horse racing almanacs
I buy them tickling devices

I put them against the sky
I explain about God and Louis Armstrong
My children will be barefoot, wandering stoppers
Eyelids of one or more loves
Hm! They will find, of course, the trumpet

They will walk around lively with spinning words
They will have friends, enemies, ex-friends
They will have to pawn their word, their coffee
But they will never pawn their trumpet, I will tell them
Because a trumpet is a trumpet
I will give them a suede chamois
I will make them write encores in the restrooms

That's what I'll do, that's what they'll be
And here is my will
I leave them a repertoire of sadness
Use it only occasionally

On the day of my death, everyone go to the funeral
Bring red sacks, bring the trumpet
Play Rosa, Honeysuckle, or some other blues
But be careful, bring scarves
In cemeteries, one dies of love and cold
And I love them so much!