El Último Pasillo

Nobody looks good in the cemetery
(Not the minister nor the laborer)
They are all meat for the rumor
The priest shares an alley
With those who had neither bread nor fish
And now they are, among worms
Bones of desolation

They say that at night he begs for rest
And listens in solitude to serenades and songs
It's the last corridor
And in death you will understand
That your castle has always been made of sand
(Oh, oh, oh)
It's the last corridor, the end of the spiral arrives
Where consciousness wields its hammer

They are nothing but numbers in an inventory
(The crew grows)
Who would see the governor like this
Withered and silent in a garden
Where classes do not exist
Everyone is, under those crosses, purifying dust
They say that at night he begs for rest
And listens in solitude to serenades and songs

It's the last corridor and in death you will understand
That your castle has always been made of sand
(Oh, oh, oh)
It's the last corridor, the end of the spiral arrives
Where consciousness wields its hammer
And here you are, surrounded by friends

Witches, drunks, bandits
Children of stray bullets
Office crimes, suicides
Sailors of sunken ships
Counts, libertine dukes
And a pack of present bodies

They sleep close by and clench their teeth
It's the last corridor and in death you will understand
That your castle has always been made of sand
(Oh, oh, oh)
It's the last corridor, the end of the spiral arrives
Where consciousness wields its hammer