El Palacio de Las Flores

In the Palace of Flowers
there were flowers of all colors,
it was in Basavilbaso,
it's been a long time since I passed by there.
Near the garage, near Retiro station,
and Florida Street and San Martín Square.

How flowery is the Palace of Flowers,
which I saw from the outside,
because back then I was a kid
living with my parents.
So joy is not a new thing,
all the time in the past was worse.

A lot of hustle and bustle in the street,
a lot of 'no, sir' 'yes, sir',
at home we didn't have a TV
and I hadn't written a song.

I wasn't interested in soccer,
I went to San Telmo to buy old and broken things,
but my classmate's dad
would take us to see Independiente.

It was the time of Pastoriza,
Santoro and Chivo Pavoni,
and my friend's dad who lived in Ciudad de La Paz,
was disappeared and I never saw him again.

I hope they are alive and well
in the country of 'follow me',
'follow me, I won't let you down'
where, where a count shat,
where the bosses crucify them,
first look at number 10,
but it's not enough to open your eyes
to realize everything at once.

Beware of words ending in 'ina',
I also love Argentina very much
although nobody asked me if I wanted to be born in Argentina,
where those who don't eat let themselves be eaten.
The never-ending nonsense
ina, guillotine, amphetamine, and tar.
How they give it to us, how they give it to us in Argentina,
they give us Boquita and tropical rhythm
and a base for the tin in the outskirts and in the Capital.
I'm a rocker, from the field, a fan of Los Redondos,
let the hunger string tighten
there's not even enough for cold cuts, settle for the smells.

Like in the Palace of Flowers
where they danced until they burst.

You have to live off something,
you have to enjoy something.

Like in the Palace of Flowers
where they danced until they burst.