Translate to
The night, mate, has gone to shuffle
And paints the sun's guide in the sky
The moon is the wicked witch that cracks
And the sun a blonde who lets down her hair
The sun is the bull's eye that brings joy
The gentle joy of new life
The hot pillow that sets the day
When he comes sadly out of his dark cave
The sun is the poncho of the poor man passing by
Chewing, rebellious, blasphemies and pleading
Well, he has a horrible tragedy at home
Tragedies of days without bread and fire
We, the sparrows of the underworld, we enjoy
Their sincere friendship in days of partying
What does the money matter, if inside we carry
The harmonious soul of twenty guitars?
We sing with our misery
The hymn to the free of the sonorous verse
Sin tenerle envidia al canto de histeria
Of the poor canary in the golden cage
The lights of the center burn our wings
That's why we are looking for a quiet suburb
And when a sorrow carves us inside
We sing sadder, but we sing just the same
La vida fulera, so mistonga and maula
It carved us rebellious like sparrows
Who die of rabies inside the cage
And fill the squares with joyful songs
We march without north, we march without direction
Without discouragement digging its claws into us
What does the road matter, if inside we carry
The harmonious soul of twenty guitars?
View lyrics in other languages
