Gorriones

The night, buddy, has gone to the cards
and paints the guide of the sun in the sky.
The moon, is the shady witch that cuts
and the sun, a blonde letting her hair down.

The sun is the target that brings the joy,
the soft joy of a new life,
the warm clothes that the day puts on
when it sadly comes out of its dark cave.

The sun is the poncho of the poor guy passing
chewing rebellious curses and prayers
for he has a horrible tragedy at home,
a tragedy of days without bread and without fire.

We sparrows of the underworld enjoy
its sincere friendship on party days.
What does the cash matter if inside we carry
the harmonious soul of twenty guitars!

We sing with our misery
the anthem to the free of the sonorous verse
without envying the hysterical song
of the poor canary in the golden cage.

The lights of the city burn our wings
that’s why we seek the calm of the suburbs
and when a sorrow cuts us inside
we sing more sadly but we still sing.

The shady life, so tricky and sly
shaped us rebels like the sparrows
that die of rage inside the cage
and fill the squares with joyful songs.

We march without order, we march without direction
without discouragement sinking its claws into us.
What does the path matter, if inside we carry
the harmonious soul of twenty guitars!