E Que Tudo Mais Vá Para o Céu

One day you told me, in Andalusia and in Valladolid
Granada lies beyond the sea, in Spain
You dipped your bread in my wine
And also spoke to me about things from Brazil
The IMF, Tom, a poet fallen in the civil war

The man from the machine then, then told me
Go away, cursed poet!
Your cursed time has also come to an end

And I left smiling, not caring about anything; how can I care
About these things when I have a passionate soul?

But your hair is blacker than black
Of the wing of the curlew, of a more subtle black
Black like the black types that make up the word indigo

And at night I enter CinemaScope
Technicolor, World Vision, those cowboy ones
What's the use of my good playboy life?
And I buy this cheap opium
For two gambles, a little more
But how it hurts... I enter a stadium and loneliness gnaws at me

And I want to send up high
What they think of sending to hell
And let everything else go to heaven

And I want to send up high
What they think of sending to hell
And let everything else go to heaven
And let everything else go to heaven
And let everything else go to heaven