Revolver

There are times I dream of returning to Argentina
riding in the air, descending from the sun.
At home, a million friends await me,
the old lady, the canary, and the brown funghi.

There are times I dream of returning to Colombia,
playing dumb and not boarding the plane.
With Peggy and Mary, we go to Retiro,
and make love on the ghost train.

If the boys could see how fierce death is,
there's no gambling, no homeland, no donkeys, no sun.
If you sing, you're not heard, if you speak, there's no reply,
not a girl in sight around.

There are times I dream of returning to Argentina
riding in the air, descending from the sun.
At home, a million friends await me,
the old lady, the canary, and the brown funghi.

There are times I dream of opening the wardrobe,
taking down the guitar and starting to sing.
That at the obelisk, the Queen of the Silver River
raises the torch of liberty.

But the most beautiful thing I dream in the dream
is when I put on the brown funghi,
the new tamangos, the biaba in my hair,
and a couple of diamonds in the dining room.

If the boys could see how fierce death is,
there's no gambling, no homeland, no donkeys, no sun.
If you sing, you're not heard, if you speak, there's no reply,
not a girl in sight around.

There are times I dream of returning to Argentina
riding in the air, descending from the sun.
At home, a million friends await me,
the old lady, the canary, and the brown funghi.

My beloved Buenos Aires
when I see you again...