Caminito a La Obra (Historia Por Rumbas)

Okay, his future got fogged up by the flip-flop...
Okay, the sun has marked him with a trowel's iron
and at birth they put the hobble on him.

Okay, he has breakfast with the hoe
to start the day with a Monday's heart
in an early bar at Casa Antúnez.

Okay, he'll start the mobile.
Okay, they are souls that flounder
on the path to the work.

Okay, they rise to the sky between brick and mortar...
Okay, his eyes cry tears of cement
watching dreams escape like the winds.

They grow at night
and in the day they collapse
the dreams that oblivion cradles
through rumbas
until the day comes
of the chosen ones
when the echo returns them
from oblivion.

It clears up in a Vanguardia with the lunchbox
and is celebrated with half a bottle of Priorato
and warms up with sun and permanganate.

And repentant in the shadow he takes a nap
dreaming of playing a trick on his foreman
and that Betis wins away and Barça at home.

Okay, where there's no luck or money
okay, there's no god that finds the North
if not saved by a fourteen.

Okay, when the sun folds and the scaffold lowers
okay, he has cramps in his stolen soul
and tomorrow his story will not have changed anything.

They grow at night
and in the day they collapse
the dreams that oblivion cradles
through rumbas
until the day comes
of the chosen ones
when the echo returns them
from oblivion.

Okay, his future got fogged up by the flip-flop...
Okay, the sun has marked him with a trowel's iron
and at birth they put the hobble on him.